Kind Of A Forever Deal
by pop-pop-bananas
Summary: Getting the girl of your dreams is expensive. Along with a few friends, Dean gets packed off to volunteer at a summer camp for some extra cash but isn't prepared for what he finds there. Destiel teenage AU.
1. The One Where Dean Has A Fool Proof Plan

**A/N: Right. First thing's first – this is not going to be one of my heavy, plotty, confusing mindfuckery fics. This is just for fun. It's silly, it's summery, and it's kind of stupid. Dean, Jo and Victor are sixteen years old, all packed up to work at a summer camp for some extra cash, meet a blue-eyed dweeb who wants to join the fun, fall in love for the first time, and hit some bumps along the way. It's just a bit of fun. Anyway, it's nice to be posting something again and I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine or I'd be doing something more productive like bringing back the Novaks.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter One**

**Week 0, Day 0**

Getting the girl of your dreams is expensive, especially when it's Lisa Braeden. Lisa likes flowers and jewellery and designer labels – but she's also nice and basically the hottest girl on the planet, _and_she laughs at Dean's jokes, so she's basically perfect. Of course, perfect is never going to come for free.

The plan is this, Dean had decided some weeks ago over sloppy cafeteria pizza.

Step one: buy tickets for Ambi Rock Festival.

Step two: invite Lisa to Ambi Rock Festival, free of charge.

Step three: have the most incredible, life-changing weekend of their lives.

Step four: get married and have three kids and a dog.

It was absolutely foolproof. The only problem was the cost.

"That's the only problem?" Jo had said sceptically, but she's been his best friend since kindergarten, so she's allowed to be a cynical bitch. Thankfully, Victor had been supportive.

It didn't matter anyway, because Dean had just stretched back on his chair, smiled, and said with lazy confidence, "Don't worry about a thing. It'll work. You'll see."

Cut to now. Saying that John Winchester is less than impressed would be an enormous understatement. Mary is trying to ignore both the fact that two of her boys are arguing, and also that her other boy is doing calculus all over the table when she is about thirty seconds from serving out spaghetti for dinner.

"Money doesn't grow on trees, Dean," John repeats angrily for the gazillionth time. "If you want to go to this concert so bad, you can damn well work at the garage for the summer until you earn it!"

"That's so unfair," Dean complains, also for the gazillionth time. He knows he's being a whiney little bitch, but come on! It's like his parents _want_him to never get laid, ever. "You know, Crowley Coolen asked his parents if he could go to _Sweden_for the summer and they paid for the whole thing."

"Crowley Coolen's mom also invented string cheese," Sam points out unhelpfully around the pencil jammed between his teeth.

"Why would you want to go to Sweden anyway?" Mary wonders. She smacks Sam lightly on the shoulder. "Sammy, I told you to tidy up. Come on."

"Well, aren't you glad I only want to go to Ambi Festival?" Dean exclaims.

"For the last time, not with my money!" John snaps his newspaper in the air, folds it neatly down the middle, and then lays it down on the table. "Son, if you want to go Timbuktu, I do not care – I will even drive you to the airport – as long as it is done with your own money. You're not a child anymore, Dean! In two years you'll be a responsible adult and I'm sure as hell not paying for you then."

Dean is five seconds from jumping up and starting the humiliating, last-resort _you're-ruining-my-life_speech when Mary interrupts.

"Hang on!" she says suddenly, holding up both hands to pacify them. "Just one second."

John and Dean exchange equally bewildered glances, the anger and tension instantly dissolving from their bodies. Mary wipes her hands on a towel and then goes to pluck a slip of paper from the family notice-board.

"You guys will never believe who got back in touch a few days ago," she says, smiling. After a moment she notices the identical, vacant stares coming back at her, and seems to realise that getting them to guess would be painful and futile. "Missouri Moseley, my old friend from college, called the other day and we just got to catching up. Anyway, it turns out that for the past few years she has been running a very successful summer camp for kids that are too smart for their own good and need to learn the benefits off the outdoors-"

"No." Dean refuses outright. "I am not going to some weirdo dork camp!"

"Of course not, seeing as it's for under-twelves," Mary dismisses. "What I was going to suggest is that you help out. Missouri has full-time staff, obviously, but every year the camp depends heavily on the help of young volunteers. You'd get a free flight over, free accommodation and food – _and_you'd be paid – and I think you'd really enjoy it! You'd be teaching the kids, I guess. I've looked at the brochure... it's by the sea and there's things like camping, water sports, stuff like that. It looks great, Dean! I think it'd be really fun – like an adventure! You might even make friends!"

Mary is using that persuasive voice that she usually saves for coaxing Sam to put away his Lord Of The Rings books while they're eating. Dean is very suspicious. "Where is it?" There must be a catch. It's probably in some bog in Wyoming or something, ten million miles from anywhere cool.

"Well." Mary looks over at John appeasingly before saying, "It's in Texas."

"Texas?" John echoes. "No, Mary. We can barely trust the boy to go to Walmart – we can't ship him off to Texas on his own!"

"I thought you'd drive me to the airport for Timbuktu!" Dean shoots back.

"He wouldn't be alone," Mary cuts in before John can argue back. "Sam could go too, get away from his books and his ninth-grade math – Sammy, clear your stuff, now! I won't ask again – and they'd be in safe hands with Missouri. Dean could even invite some of his friends along to help out. I don't think they'd object to earning a bit of extra cash in Texas during the summer, and I know that Ellen would certainly benefit from getting Jo out of her hair for a few weeks."

As Sam clatters out collecting up his pens and papers, he burbles excitedly about whether they could go to Disneyland too. Dean blocks the noise out, hesitantly considering it. It does sound like a lot of fun. Him, Jo and Victor, messing about on beach, going camping... and no parents! Just sun, sand, stupidity – and don't forget, the money needed to get Lisa to fall in love with him.

He grins up at his parents. "I'll do it."

**ooo**

**Week 0**

This is how the Winchester boys, plus a Harvelle and a Hendrikson, end up on an interstate flight to Bay City Municipal Airport, Texas.

It's June. Ten weeks of glorious summer stretch ahead of them, and they don't intend to waste a second. Jo and Victor are living it up, ordering endless Cokes from the stewardess – Missouri is paying for it, after all. Dean and Sam have never been on a plane before; they've never had had the need, as their whole extended family lives in Kansas, within thirty miles of Lawrence, in fact. Sam loves every second of the experience, pressing his dweeby little face up against the window as they soar over cities and plains and great dark lakes. Dean throws up twice.

The landing is so bumpy that both Winchesters nearly pee their pants: Dean from terror, and Sam from laughing so hard. Dean punches him in the leg, and he limps through security – although he's somehow still able to loudly play the Bomb Game and get them manhandled through security. They are all given a Serious Warning About The Importance Of Airport Security, which none of them pay attention to. They can already see Texas through the arrival lounge windows.

Missouri, when they meet her, is a heavy-set black woman with more attitude than she has beaded necklaces, which is saying something. She gives them each a bone-crushing hug, and gives Dean a Pepsi.

"I have a feeling you wouldn't like flying," she explains kindly.

Dean is still a little green, and extremely grateful.

"What about us?" Sam protests.

Missouri turns a level eye on him. "Honey, you get the knowledge and pride than you weren't unmanned by a two-hour plane journey."

Everyone except Dean finds this hilarious. However, he feels infinitely better as soon as he steps outside into the airport carpark, where a shuttle-bus emblazoned _CAMP CHIQUITA_is waiting. This is Texas. Straight outside the airport is one road a million miles long and nothing else as far as the eye can see. The ground is red scrub and short grass, and a speckled bird that Dean has never seen before settles on a fence-post, peering around, before alighting again. Sweat is already beading the back of his neck, and his freckles hurt just _thinking_about all that bright sunlight. The air is hot, sticky, and it smells like freedom.

Camp Chiquita is an hour's drive from the airport; two miles outside of a small coastal town by the name of Alben, and half a mile from the Gulf of Mexico. The I-road out cuts through stubby yellow plantations for several minutes, and then a wide dirt road peels out south-east, winding through fields, then woodlands, and then later through little concrete security structures. They're unloaded and checked for anything unsavoury, and, sadly, Jo's "medical marijuana" is confiscated.

"Godamnit," she hisses as they climb back into the bus. "I had a hell of a time getting that past my mom... she checked my suitcase _three times._"

Sam looks between the three of them disapprovingly. "I'm telling mom."

"You tell mom a single thing that happens on this trip and I'm telling mom that you smuggled the Game Of Thrones DVDs into your suitcase at the last minute instead of taking spare underpants," Dean threatens.

Sam clamps his mouth shut and turns to look out of the window with new fascination. Then the road is curving into a small asphalt car-park and the shuttle-bus doors are thrown open again.

"Everyone out!" Missouri calls. The four fall over themselves in their hurry to get out and then follow her across a grass lawn to the lobby. "You guys are the last volunteers to show up," she tells them as they push through the doors. "Sam, honey, I'm just going to sort out these guys and then I'll take you to your cabin. Right, here we go."

Inside, the air-conditioning hits them like a punch and Dean feels sweat dry on him like a thin film of plastic. There are already several teenagers milling about, trying on assorted garments of camp uniform and then reporting back on size and fit. Dean, Jo and Victor are thrust into the middle of it to get sorted out, and Sam is whisked away before Dean can even say goodbye.

Ugly red polo shirts; knee-length khaki shorts; sneakers; stupid red baseball cap. Check.

Dean bundles them up carelessly in one big ball, holds it under one arm and waits for Jo and Victor to finish their folding their stuff neatly into their suitcases. "We ready to go?"

"No-one's going anywhere," says a voice like nails over a blackboard over more nails, from behind Dean. The voice belongs to a tall, skinny man with salt-and-pepper hair and a lecherous smile. His eyes flicker slowly up and down Dean's body. "You sit tight, Freckles. Staff needs to talk to you all."

Dean holds his ground until the man has walked away until he shudders violently. "Jesus Christ, who _is_that guy? I feel like I need to disinfect myself."

"No offence, Dean," Jo says, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing, "but that guy looks like he plans to be scraping you bloody off his mattress later."

"Wow, I really needed that vivid imagery." Dean shakes his head. "Thanks. Now I have to disinfect my brain, too."

Jo is in the middle of holding her crotch like a cowboy and acting out how she imagines the guy will try to seduce Dean when they are interrupted by the crackle and scream of a badly-connected microphone.

"Everyone, listen up," Missouri is saying, standing at the far end of the room, surrounded by the other staff, who Jo promptly nicknames Dracula, Wonder Woman, Teletubby Number Five, and The Bearded Wonder. "First of all, welcome to Camp Chiquita. For those of you who haven't met me yet, I'm Missouri Moseley. I'm the manager and head of admissions here, and I may not have time to look after you all personally, but that's what my staff are here for. We want this to run as smoothly as possible. You're here for ten weeks. I don't want any petty squabbles or idiocy, but at the same time, it's going to be a lot of fun, if you guys help to make it happen."

She introduces the others as Alistair Alderman, Pamela Barnes, Zachariah Novak and Chuck Shirley, and they step up one by one to address the volunteers. The overly-happy bald Teletubby comes up first to say that if they all work hard and do as they're told, then this will be the best summer of their lives. But mostly work hard and do as you're told. Or else. Great.

Zachariah smiles benevolently down at them all like he's just eaten two children and he's still hungry, before passing the mike over to Pamela. She's a hell of a lot nicer, and explains to them how the weeks are going to work. Two volunteers will each be assigned to an age-set, from seven to twelve years old, and they will alternate activities to look after their group. Over the summer, they'll switch age-sets every fortnight as one batch of children leaves and another arrives, but at any other given time they will either be with their designated munchkins, or doing other work for the staff while their partner works the kiddie slot.

The Bearded Wonder is Head of Activities. He just tells them that there are maps up around the place so that they can't get lost and that he wants them to all have fun. He mumbles something about trying not to let any kids drown at Water Sports, which is a little ominous, and then the creepy guy, Alistair, is back.

"This is not a vacation," he starts, smiling unsettlingly again. "This is a business. The twenty dollars a week you make comes out of the dollars _we_make, and if you want it then I'd suggest you work hard for it. No funny business. I'm Head of Discipline for the kids, but I will keep you in line as well. You best hope I don't learn any of your names." He says a lot of other stuff, but Dean is still kind of reeling from the outright threats in the first paragraph. And that guy Chuck just wants them to have fun?

Okay. Dean is sensing a lot of mixed messages.

"So what I got from that," Victor says in a conspiratorial whisper, "is that they want us to work our asses off and be grateful that whatshisface isn't already picking us out of his teeth."

Jo snorts into her hand. "Yeah, or the Jolly Green Asshole uses our bones to floss after ingesting so many children's souls."

Dean opens his mouth to respond but there is the sudden rush of volunteers moving forwards as the staff start handing out leaflets saying which age-groups each person will be looking after for the first fortnight.

"Harvelle, Joanna Beth!"

Jo glances between them. "Call me when you get your rooms and I'll find you later," she says, and then in a flash she is shoving through the other volunteers, all sharp elbows and _get outta my way, jackass!_

Victor is gone next. Dean is the last to go, except for a short guy called Ash Zeigler who looks like he's not all there, euphemistically speaking. Avoiding eye contact with Dracula Alistair, Dean thanks The Bearded Wonder for his piece of paper and heads off for the accommodation block, duffle-bag slung over one arm and uniform tucked under the arm. He reads as he walks – the first two weeks he's sharing the ten-year-olds with some chick called Meg Masters. Doesn't sound too bad.

Dean idly wonders if this Meg girl will be hot before he remembers that the only reason he's here at all is so that he can settle down to some serious Lisa-shaped monogamy. Eyes on the prize.

The housing block is five minutes' walk from the lobby, cutting around the cutesy wooden cabins where the kids stay. It's on the fringe of the woodlands where all the maps say that paintball and camping trips take place, and the fence in front of it is lined with brand-spanking-new bicycles of every colour and size. Dean vaults over the fence and heads up the front steps. The building is ugly concrete, taller than it is wide, and dappled with wide square windows. The first floor juts out from the rest of the structure like an under-bite, and the two storeys above look like they haven't been kept in quite as nice condition. Dean can guess where the full-time staff live.

Dean's room is 201, up a flight of stairs. Each of the upper storeys holds four small apartments. The number 2 outside his room is crooked, and the door is already open.

"Hello?" Dean calls as he goes in, and he has not taken two steps inside before he is hit with a musty couch cushion.

"Welcome to home sweet home, asshole," Victor grins from the other side of the room. "You're gonna be my little bitch for the next ten weeks."

"Oh god." Dean hurls his uniform back at Victor, loose sneakers and all, and drops his duffle-bag on the floor as he looks around. There is a tiny kitchen which looks like it isn't even stocked with utensils, seeing as there's cafeteria food three times a day instead; a ragged couch and armchair set; then, divided only by a change in the colour scheme of the threadbare rugs strewn across the floor, a bedroom with two single beds. Male showers are communal at the end of the hall.

"I've shotgunned the bed on the far left. That quilt is the trippiest thing I've ever seen, man," Victor swears, dumping Dean's thrown stuff on the table and throwing himself down onto the couch. Victor likes patterns.

"Cool story." Dean fishes out his cell phone and scrawls through his contacts to text Sam. "You heard from Jo?" he asks as he keys in a simple message checking that he's okay.

"Only a weird, cryptic text asking what side of the building our room is on." Victor shrugs. Then, as though on cue, there is a shrill buzz in his pocket. He pulls out his own mobile and reads the text aloud. "_Look out your window, dumbass._ Oh, I love it when she sends me sweet nothings."

Still texting Sam, Dean obediently crosses to one of their windows, hauls the sash up and leans out.

"Up here," Jo's voice calls from the apartment above. She is hanging out of the window directly above them, blonde hair swinging like a pendulum as she rocks dangerously back and forth. "What'd you guys get?"

Dean presses _send_and then looks up again. "I got tens with some girl called Meg Masters, and Victor – I don't know." Dean glances back as Victor crosses to the window. "What did you get?"

"I got elevens, so I'll have Sammy at least, if I can't control the little bastards. Some guy called... Casteel? Casteyel? – Novak, anyway, is sharing my shift," Victor says, making a face as he trips over the name. He props his elbows on the sill to peer up at Jo. "You?"

"I'm with my roommate, Anna, and we got the freaking _sevens_," Jo says sulkily. Her bitchface is the only one Dean has ever seen that comes anywhere close to rivalling Sam's. "It's like they knew I hated children, and gave me the worst group out of everyone's. Christ."

"Dude, if you hate kids, why did you volunteer to work at a children's summer camp?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Same reason as you – to get money! Only mine's actually for a good cause, by the way, not just so I can bang some cheerleader who doesn't even know my name," Jo says, cocking an eyebrow pointedly.

"Lisa knows my name!" Dean insists.

"Anyway, Dean's totally doing it for a good cause," Victor says sympathetically. "He's doing it for charity."

"_Thank_you," Dean sighs, glad that someone is on his side – but then they both start cracking up and he realises what's just been said. He shoves Victor hard and steps away from the window, jabbing an accusatory finger. "Hey, fuck you, man. That was low. When me and Lisa are married with three kids you're going to eat those words."

"When you and Lisa are married, you'll get those words on a plate served up in jalapeno sauce and you can watch us savour every syllable," Jo yells down. "Hand on heart!"

Dean rolls his eyes and lets himself fall back against the wall next to the window. "That's if Alistair doesn't get me first," he mutters. "I swear to god, a rape alarm has never seemed like a better idea."

"Don't worry, it's going to be okay," Victor says passionately, and Dean can just hear him warming up for an inspirational speech. He's been desperate to be school valedictorian since he was about nine years old: here we go. "No matter what happens – bitchy, greedy, and just plain mean little kids, with no-one to back us up except Roommate Anna, Meg, and this guy with the unpronounceable name – this is the only ten weeks we're possibly gonna ever get where our parents have literally no control over us, until we're like, thirty. If it's shit, we make it better. If it's good, we make it awesome."

"If we accidentally kill a child, we hold hands, run away to Mexico and never look back," Jo chimes in, still sour about her group placement.

"Yeah, sure, that too." Victor frowns. "Don't try to push murder off as an accident, though. I am not going to be your enabler."

"Hey, I thought that this was supposed to be the best summer ever," Dean says drily. "What's a vacation without a little murder?"

"No, Dean, it's not a vacation - it's a _business_."

Dean just laughs at that.


	2. The One With Mr Awesome

**A/N: Hi – I've got a few chapters written so I should be updating quite fast but I might slow down as I run out of words to give you! Anyway – ta-da! **

**Disclaimer: Not mine or I'd be doing something more productive like bringing back the Novaks.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Two**

**Week 1, Days +75-72**

Life begins at an ungodly hour.

Six-thirty every morning, the volunteers are rolling out of bed, climbing half-awake into their overly-starched uniforms and getting down to the cafeteria as fast as they can to get the best breakfasts.

By seven-thirty in the morning, the cafeteria is closed to volunteers as the kids start pouring in. Dean always stays in as late as possible so he can be leaving as Sammy comes in, check that he's alright, and then he's got to be off to get ready for the day.

Monday – one hour ultimate Frisbee, which is basically the worst sport ever. One hour survival skills in the woods, and Dean sets fire to his hand. At least he made the kids laugh. Lunch-time; Dean gets a half hour to convene with Jo and Victor to bitch about their groups. Then it's back to kayaking and athletics. Dean gets called into the main office for a strict talk with his favourite member of staff, Alistair, for swearing loudly and at length over his injured hand.

Tuesday starts with dance, because God hates Dean. He's trying to teach ten-year-olds how to samba, and worse still, Victor organises his eleven-year-olds so that they can play football next to the dance classroom. Sammy laughs so hard he cries when Dean demonstrates a shimmy. Thankfully the afternoon is manlier, with windsurfing and basketball.

Wednesday. Soccer and survival skills. Dean is still nursing his burnt hand from the first session. Jo turns up at lunch with a black eye, so Dean guesses he's not doing too badly after all. Back to water polo in the pool and then stupid ultimate freaking Frisbee again.

Every night, Dean drops by the little wooden cabins before dinner to check on Sam. Dean's not allowed inside the cabins in case he touches a kiddie in the bad place, but they sit on the front steps and talk about how it's going.

Sam has made some friends; there's a guy in his cabin called Andy who he really likes, and there's a girl in his group called Jess who makes him go pink every time he mentions her. He likes water sports but he'd still rather sit inside and read.

Dean tries not to fall into routine but he does, and it goes like this.

After talking for an hour so, stand up, shove at Sammy's hair so it falls stupidly over his face. Jog down to dinner, get pizza, eat with Jo and Victor. Head back up to the housing block. Lean out of the windows to talk until the sun starts to go down so that they can't be seen, and then Jo climbs down, and Dean and Victor swing over the sill so that they can sit on the roof where the staff apartments jut out below them. At a certain point, clamber back into their respective rooms and crash, exhausted, into bed.

Repeat.

**ooo**

**Week 1, Day +71**

"So what'd your parents sell it to you as?"

Dean has taken it upon himself to start talking, seeing as the other guy clearly isn't going to. The person in question jolts as though the very idea of being engaged in conversation is enough to give him a heart attack, and then turns to blink at Dean, big blue eyes.

"Excuse me?" His voice is low for his age – he looks about sixteen, same age as Dean – and gravelly like sandpaper over asphalt. He speaks slowly, as though he's picking every word.

"My mom sold the whole camp to me as this magical whirlwind of summer fun and adventure," Dean says by way of explanation, and he waves his scrubbing brush about like a wand for emphasis. "And here I am instead. Cleaning a communal shower."

The other guy just stares blankly at Dean like he has three heads. Maybe he's foreign. It would explain why he talks so cautiously.

"Uh." Dean feels intensely pressurised by all the staring. He clears his throat. "So, yeah. What about you?"

Another slow blink. Then: "My parents are dead."

Idiotically, it takes Dean a second to process what's just been said. "Oh, cool. I mean – wait, what? Seriously?" Dean needs to shut up, fast, but he can't stop. Words are coming out like verbal diarrhoea. He can feel himself flushing red. "Oh god, I didn't mean like – wow. Shit, I'm sorry. Uh."

"It's okay. You didn't know." Still staring.

Dean is starting to feel more than a little uncomfortable. He coughs again and gets back to cleaning the thin stripes of mould in the cracks between floor-tiles. "So how did you get into this?" he asks.

Only now does the other boy focus on the shower head that he is scrubbing. "My family believes in giving back to the community. My uncle works here so he suggested that this would be a good start."

Man of many words, Dean thinks. He probably should have just left them both to clean their respective showers in peace and quiet. Well, now that he's got into this, he may as well keep awkwardly pushing it to keep going. "Cool." He nods respectfully. "It's kind of similar here – Missouri's an old family friend. She's helping me to get some summer money so I can go to this awesome festival later."

A frown creases up the other guy's forehead. "That isn't similar at all," he says bluntly.

Dean flinches, a little stung. He doesn't mind his best friends calling him a selfish bastard but the implication kind of hurts from a guy he's only just met. "Well-"

"You're Dean Winchester, right?"

"Yeah." Dean twists to look over at him. He scans his features for a second, trying to see if it's familiar. ...Nope. Dean screws up his face apologetically. "Sorry, I really just... have absolutely _no_idea who you are."

"Castiel Novak."

He sticks out a hand formally. Dean hesitates for a second before shaking it. They both have soapy fingers and their hands slip awkwardly.

"I have heard of you, actually," Dean says, wiping off the suds and sweat of Castiel's hand from his own on his shorts. "You're sharing the elevens with my friend Victor."

"Yes," Castiel replies, returning to the task of his shower head. "Victor and I haven't met yet."

"I'll say – dude, we had no idea how to say your name," Dean chuckles, realising a second too late that it's probably pretty antisocial to directly say that they'd been discussing him. "Castiel, right? What is that, French?"

"Hebrew. Castiel is the angel of Thursday."

"So I'm gonna guess you were born on a Thursday, then."

Castiel looks at him quizzically, tipping his head a little to one side like a bird. "No. I was born on a Saturday."

Well, that was unexpected. But then again, Castiel is pretty unexpected.

**ooo**

**Week 1, Day +70**

Now that they've met, Dean starts noticing Castiel everywhere. Eating by himself in the cafeteria. Leading a troop of kids on bicycles down to the sea front. Sorting through the staff post in the lobby, stamping and filing things. Buying ice lollies for his group from the camp shop. Seemingly wherever Dean looks, there is Castiel – dark hair tufty under his baseball cap, blue eyes screwed up against the sunlight.

Dean nearly runs him over at the end of the week when he, Jo and Victor all 'borrow' Chiquita bicycles so that they can ride up to Alben. Castiel is crossing the footpath that leads into the woods, looking up at the trees rather than where he's going, and Dean is paying attention to what Victor is saying about Sammy's progress with kayaking –

And then suddenly Dean is yelling, "Jesus, Cas, outta the way!" and squeezing the brakes so hard that he nearly flips over the handlebars.

Castiel looks up, deer frozen in headlights, and then quickly steps to the side; Dean's bike skids to a halt right where Castiel had been standing a millisecond earlier. Breathing hard, Dean glares over at him, and finds that Castiel is watching him.

"Dude, you need to watch where you're going," Dean tells him angrily.

"I assumed that would be the responsibility of the one in control of the vehicle," Castiel says calmly, and there is a slight lilt to his low voice that suggests he might be taking the piss out of Dean. Jo laughs – it's definite, then.

"Alright, smartass." Dean huffs, still scowling. "Wear a bell or something next time."

Castiel doesn't answer that. He just leans over, coming into Dean's personal space in a way that feels all at once incredibly intrusive and perfectly normal, and rings the bell mounted on Dean's bicycle handlebar. Then he steps back, and says, "I'll see you later, Dean." He glances between Jo and Victor to silently acknowledge them, and then he's on his way. Still looking up at the trees. Dean almost hopes that he might trip over something.

"He's cute," Jo comments.

"He's kind of weird too," Victor says. "I went over to his room the other day to ask him about swapping shifts because I couldn't face another samba lesson, and he was sitting there doing differential equations."

"Ooh, brains. Me gusta." Jo shrugs. "Besides, if he already recognises that Dean takes himself too seriously, then he's good enough for me."

Dean flips her off as they set off down the uneven dirt footpath that winds up through two sugar plantations and then on to Alben. They reach the pier within fifteen minutes, and all pile into a waterfront cafe called Singer's for ice-cream and iced Cokes. The crinkle of their first twenty bucks in their back pockets is insanely liberating, and the guy in charge of the cafe is grouchy but kind, calling Jo an _'idjit'_ and giving her an extra scoop of vanilla. They sit in a small booth as far as possible from any windows; they all agree that if another small child comes anywhere near them, they can't be held liable for what they do to it. It's been a long first week.

"What's getting me is not being allowed to swear in front of them," Victor laments. "Like, a hundred times a day I'm going purple in the face and all I can do is calmly say over and over in my head: _leave me the fudge alone you little sherbert._ Again. And again."

The woman in the booth opposite them gives them a filthy look.

"Sherbert," Jo says thoughtfully, rattling her spoon around her bowl. "I like that. I've been calling them all _precious little cockatoos_."

"I don't know about you guys, but my team are the best ever," Dean says sarcastically. He ticks off his fingers. "I've got a hypochondriac, one who hates water, and identical twins who keep pretending to be each other just to fuck with me."

"I have two biters," Jo says fiercely. "_Two!"_ She holds a hand lined with thin pink claw marks and deep gouges between her knuckles.

"Dude, one of mine keeps pretending to die!" Victor cuts in. "Trust me, _biting_is the least of your problems when three times a day this girl keels over in a dead-faint and _won't fucking get up._"

Jo snorts into her icecream at that, and then stuffs her spoon into her mouth to keep from laughing. She hates the sound of her laugh. "Okay, that's pretty bad," she admits.

"I live in constant terror that one day she actually _will_die and I won't believe her! It's a nightmare," Victor says fervently. "I swear, I can only bust into the First-Aid response procedure so many times a day before my own heart gives up. I can't deal with this."

"Aw, sweetie." Compassionate as always, Jo punches him in the arm.

They all stare down into their bowls at the remnants of their icecreams. Friday is the only evening they officially get off and with this thin slush of vanilla and strawberry, that freedom is slipping away.

Dean, Jo and Victor pay up quick and cycle down the pier before they head back. They look at the stalls of iced fruit and tacky T-shirts; the bumper cars' arena that's set up by the children's playground; the women strutting over the floorboards in barely-there bikinis. They look at the Gulf, still and blue, and beyond that, the horizon.

**ooo**

**Week 2, Day +67**

One day, leading his troop of munchkins across the hot sand down to Water Sports, Dean catches a glimpse of Castiel heading over to the volleyball pitch with his own kids. Dean pauses, watching him go. Then, on a spur of the moment, he shouts, "Hey, Cas!" He cups his hands around his mouth. "_Castiel_!"

His voice seems tinny and inaudible against the crash of waves and the screech of bad eighties' music from the lifeguard hut, but Castiel lifts his head and turns. He doesn't answer. He just puts a hand up to his face to shield his eyes from the sun and stands there, waiting.

"Bet you your breakfast burrito my kids are better at kayaking than yours!" Dean yells, grinning.

Castiel doesn't move. There is a long pause. Then he calls back, "I'm booked onto the volleyball pitch."

"So?"

"I intend for my group to play volleyball as planned," Castiel says. His voice carries a hell of a lot better than Dean's does; it's kind of embarrassing. Castiel barely seems to be raising his voice, yet _he_is perfectly clear over the crackly squawk of Bonnie Tyler in stereo.

"Seriously? In ten years time, are you gonna look back on today as the day you played a really kick-ass game of volleyball, or the day you took a breakfast burrito that was rightfully yours?"

Another long pause. Then he hesitantly replies, "We're going to play volleyball."

Even from twenty yards away, Dean can hear the faint protests of Castiel's group. Dean tries not to smile. Instead he exhales slowly, puffing his cheeks out. If the _come-and-get-my-burrito-because-I-am-terrible-at-kayaking-and-I-insist-that-you-take-it-from-me_approach isn't working, then he has one option left. "Fine," he shouts back. "If you're too pansy to hand over your breakfast, then suit yourself, I guess. Whatever!" He waves half-heartedly and turns his back.

Dean and the tens haven't made it five paces before there is a roar of over-excited children sprinting past them. They've all run past Dean before he can even acknowledge that his dumb scheme actually worked – and _shit_, for a skinny guy, Castiel is freaking fast.

"Come on," Dean shouts to his own team and races after them.

They kick up sand and leave a assortment of fallen sunglasses and hats in their wake, but both teams reach the Water Sports hut at the same time. Jo and that crazy Ash guy are on-duty lifeguards there, idly playing checkers, when they are suddenly assaulted by a surge of under-twelves all scrabbling for buoyancy aids and kayak oars.

"What the hell is going on?" Jo yelps, ducking to avoid being smacked over the head with a paddle.

Castiel slides his clipboard over the counter for safe-keeping and then yanks his polo shirt over his head; there is the flash of narrow shoulders, white skin – and then he's slipping into a lifejacket. Dean does likewise.

"Can't talk now," Dean responds over the noise as he struggles into a buoyancy aid. "Burritos are at stake!"

Already Castiel's team are tearing down to the shoreline and choosing kayaks, but Dean's are hot on their heels.

"Grab a boat and a buddy and go!" Dean hollers, hastily checking that the kids' jackets are secure before grabbing a kayak of his own and hauling it out the sandy bed that it has nestled itself into. "We were doing this yesterday – we can do it again today! Out to the yellow buoy!"

Water splashes up in great white crests as the kids launch themselves inelegantly into the water. The buoy is about a hundred yards away, bobbing tantalisingly out of reach, but they power forwards, the boys both shouting hoarse, blind encouragement. Muscles burning with every left and right stroke, Dean yells out, "For _FREEDOM!"_, feeling more than a little Braveheart, and gets honest-to-god chills at the answering roars of his ten-year-olds.

One of Dean's is the first to reach the buoy, a little brunette called Ava, but she is shoved out of the way by one of Castiel's – a skinny, floppy-haired dweeb-

"_Sam_!" Dean rages, pushing forwards ever harder. "You little _shit!"_

"Ooh," some of the kids chorus, giggling into their hands, but then Dean has reached his little brother's kayak and slams into it and full-speed.

Sam nearly falls out but quickly regains his balance, and sits up, crowing, "I think you owe me a burrito too!"

"You are never getting any burritos again, you fat, cheating little-"

"I'm not fat – you're the one who makes out with cheeseburgers-"

"You are such a liar – no wonder mom likes me best!"

"Mom just hasn't told you that you're _adopted_yet-"

From here it rapidly disintegrates into Sam and Dean standing upright in their respective kayaks, feet pressed precariously against the sides and battling with their oars like Jedi knights, to a soundtrack of catcalling from both groups of kids.

"You can't defeat me, Sammy," Dean cackles, parrying a weak blow and striking back hard. "I am-" – their oars clash and slide – "Mr-" – Sam aims for his head but misses – "_Awesome_!"- Sam hits out again but overbalances, and falls back into the water amid jeering and booes.

"Hey, Mr. Awesome," comes a voice from behind Dean.

Dean tries to turn, tries to defend himself, but Castiel is already standing in his kayak and strikes out fast, catching the back of Dean's knees.

From there it's inevitable. Dean flails and wobbles and tumbles and falls deep into cold water, ass-first.

The buoyancy aid drags him back up to the surface, and when he resurfaces, all the kids – both the tens and elevens, and Sammy especially – are laughing their heads off, and Castiel is still standing on his kayak, cheeks flushed.

He gazes down at Dean with the same intense solemnity as ever. "You owe me a burrito," he says calmly, just to rub salt in the wound.

Dean tips the smug bastard's kayak over.


	3. The One Where They Fight To The Death

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Three**

**Week 2, Day +66**

"This better be the best damn burrito you've ever tasted."

Dean slams his tray down on the table and pushes it towards Castiel, who looks up in wide-eyed surprise as though he had completely forgotten that he wasn't the only person alive in the universe. Dean wonders if Castiel got in trouble as well – less than two hours after the kayak competition, Dean had been called in for a serious talk with Alistair and Zachariah about his behaviour and being a bad influence etcetera etcetera. Maybe Castiel got it taken out of his ass too.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel says, studying Dean closely as he sits down opposite him. He does not indicate that he's in any way annoyed about getting in trouble, so evidently Dean was the only one who got yelled at for his behaviour.

"Morning, sunshine. You gonna eat that burrito or not?" Dean demands. "Because if it sits there all alone for much longer, I'm going back on our bargain."

Castiel stares at Dean for several seconds, the tiniest crinkle puckering thoughtfully between his eyebrows. Seeming to have come to a conclusion, he picks up Dean's plate and takes it; he lifts his own plate with the other and puts it down on Dean's tray. The plates completely swapped, Castiel then picks up Dean's burrito and takes a bite that seems too big for his face.

For once, Dean is one who is left staring. Castiel soon realises that Dean isn't moving. He takes a moment to swallow his bite and then says, "I haven't touched it."

It takes Dean another second to realise that Castiel is talking about his own original burrito. Dean looks down at it and sure enough, it is messily presented, falling apart and steaming – exactly as it comes from the kitchen. Dean can find no fault in it; he picks it up and takes a bite. "You're weird," he says around a mouthful of burrito.

Castiel gulps his food down. "Regardless of my victory, I'm not going to let you starve," he says, long fingers toying distractedly with the straw of his juice box**.**

"Thanks for that – even though you only won because my dipshit little brother cheated," Dean points out.

"I like your brother. He keeps the others in line when they threaten violent, murderous mutiny," Castiel says, and he looks up at Dean with slightly raised eyebrows and a faint, humorous quirk to his mouth.

"That's my Sammy," Dean says proudly. Even in kindergarten, Sam was always looking to make things easier for everyone, making sure that everyone held hands and got along nicely. "He's got a competitive streak a mile long, though, as you probably guessed from that kayak race... this one time, in fourth grade, this other kid beat him at hopscotch and he bust his lip." When Castiel only looks faintly horrified, Dean hastens to add, "Don't worry, the other guy was a total tool – he would use all the nice crayons and then eat them afterwards so no-one else could have them."

Castiel nods gravely, that dangerous little smirk the only thing that betrays him as joking. "Understandable. I should have employed that technique in guarding my books from my brothers."

"What, arguing over the latest Harry Potter?" Dean guesses.

"No, they are often displeased with my choice of reading material," Castiel replies, and as he speaks, his nose scrunches up at the end. "They're very religious... and I like to read all types of literature, which unfortunately, occasionally includes those with some rather controversial topics. Have you heard of The Da Vinci Code?"

Dean nods earnestly as he shoves the last of Castiel's burrito into his mouth.

"Then you may recall its somewhat blasphemous conclusion," Castiel says ruefully.

"Oh yeah," Dean says, swallowing and licking sauce from his fingers. "Doesn't Jesus knock up some chick?"

"That _chick_ is Mary Magdalene, and yes," Castiel tells him, sounding a little disapproving himself. "You see why my brothers weren't overly impressed."

"Why do your brothers care so much?" Dean wipes the remaining grossness from his hands on a napkin and looks up at Castiel. "Sam reads some pretty weird shit, but I just warn him that if he ends up twisted, don't come crying to me in thirty years to pay for a psychiatrist."

"The difference is that I was raised by my brothers."

"Oh – right." Dean could smack himself for being such an asshole. "Your parents. Yeah. Sorry, man."

"I don't mind that you forgot," Castiel says bluntly. "It happened when I was very young." He regards him curiously over the table, eyes intent and contemplative. "You can ask what happened as well, if you like."

Dean is taken aback by this. This is only like the third proper conversation he's had with the guy, ever. He can't tell if Castiel is just prodding him, provoking him into being an even bigger douchebag, or if he just really likes talking about the death of his parents. Dean watches Castiel with some suspicion, but he's just staring back calm and open. It's hard to tell what he's thinking. Dean bites his bottom lip. "Uh."

"My mother died giving birth to me." Castiel goes ahead telling him anyway. He pushes some discarded onions around his plate in circles, seeming almost bored. "I'm told she was the light of my father's life; he broke his vows as a priest a few days later and drank himself to death within a week."

"Shit." Dean cringes. "That's pretty heavy. Sorry, man."

"It's alright. I never knew either of them. I was born early, and apparently I was kept in hospital for the best part of a month afterwards," Castiel says. He frowns, his mouth pulling up distastefully. "I was frail and... sickly."

"You still look kind of frail and sickly now, to be fair," Dean teases.

Castiel's eyes flash back to Dean's, focusing now. His frown has only deepened. His gaze moves over Dean's face, measuring him carefully. Dean wonders what Castiel makes of him; he's not sure what he makes of Cas, either.

"Don't worry, I'm kidding. Kind of." Dean shrugs. "Girls will love it, anyway. You look _sensitive_." He crushes his juice box in his hand, chewing at the straw for any leftover juice. "So, uh. Your brothers. How come they're looking after you? I guess they must be pretty old, then."

"Yes. Michael was twenty when it happened... Luke was fifteen... Raphael was ten or eleven, I believe, and my closest brother in age, Uri, was five," Castiel recites, drumming his fingers slowly on the table as he counts each brother.

Five years exactly between each child, Dean realises as he counts. His eyebrows raise a little and before he can stop himself, or at the very least give himself the internal _should you say this _speech, he blurts out, "Wow, your parents were really precise with your sexual escapades."

Eyes narrowing, Castiel only says, "Excuse me?"

Christ. Dean should be made to wear a muzzle. He just made a joke about the sexual escapades of this guy's dead parents. _Who does that? _He scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to find a way to get himself out of this. "Uh... you know. You're spaced out pretty neatly. Five years? Uh." He can feel his face burning. This is so embarrassing. "Okay, I'm sorry, forget I said anything. That was rude."

Castiel sits for a moment, considering him. He presses his lips together, tilts his head, and then ultimately comes to the conclusion: "It's okay. It's... offensive, but also... kind of refreshing."

Refreshing? Dean isn't sure he heard that right. "What?"

"Most people skirt around the topic of my parents delicately as though I'm somehow damaged by it," Castiel says nonchalantly. "Not everyone will appreciate your insensitivity – but it's different."

"Different, that's me," Dean laughs nervously, not quite able to believe his narrow escape. "Speaking of different though... how come no-one else has a weirdo angel name?"

Castiel just stares. "We all do."

Oh. Well. Dean really needs to read more theology, or at least stop putting his foot into his mouth. He decides to redeem himself by coming up with something really witty and scintillating. "Uhh. Really?"

"Michael, Raphael, Uriel..." Castiel repeats, nodding at each name for emphasis.

"Luke?"

"Well." Castiel grimaces. "You probably understand why he would be reticent to be referred to as Lucifer in public."

Dean nearly chokes on his own spit and gives an ugly laugh. "Oh my god, you have a brother named after Satan," he says incredulously.

Castiel seems unimpressed. "Originally, Lucifer meant _Morning Star_ or _Bringer Of Light-_"

"Pfft," Dean says, grinning. "Say what you want. Hitler was a painter." Castiel only frowns at this, and watches as Dean gathers up his tray and its contents. Dean then jerks his head expectantly towards the door of the cafeteria. "Come on," he urges. "Let's go. I'm pretty sure we've both got somewhere to be, something to do... kids to babysit."

Castiel obediently picks up his things and follows Dean out of the cafeteria. They meet Sam on the way out, deep in conversation with some cute pigtailed girl which Dean assumes must be Jess. Dean pokes Sam in the back of the neck where he's most ticklish on the way out, so that Sam snorts loudly and uncontrollably. Luckily for Sam, this Jess girl must _really _like him, because that shit isn't pretty, and yet she keeps on about what they're discussing.

Dean and Castiel head over together to look at the volunteers' timetable on the chalkboard outside the cafeteria. Dean has admin in the lobby – it just says _SEE CHUCK SHIRLEY_ in big letters. Castiel has water aerobics in the pool behind the behind the kiddie cabins.

"Looks like I'll see you later," Dean comments, scanning the board. They have no shared sessions today or even sessions where they might be vaguely near each other. He looks over at Castiel, nodding appreciatively. "Well, it was nice talking to you, Cas. Maybe we can hygienically switch burritos again sometime."

"Maybe you'll find something your group are better at before betting something so invaluable on their skills."

"Wow. That was just rude." Dean shakes his head. "Just plain rude. You wait – one day I will kick your ass all the way to Chinatown, you hear me?"

Castiel stares back at him. The peak of his baseball cap casts his face all into shadow and the bright light beyond his face is startling, painful, by contrast, so Dean can't tell, but it sounds like Castiel is smiling a little when he says, "We'll see."

**ooo**

**Week 2, Day +64**

On Wednesday, Victor decides that he's sick and tired of looking at the gaudy, nauseating decor of the cafeteria, so they grab sandwiches from the camp shop and head down to the beach.

"Fact: Meg Masters is feeding our kids chocolate behind my back," Dean states, nudging pebbles around with the toe of his sneaker. They're playing the Fact Game, where one can only speak in true, direct statements. It isn't the most wildly exciting game ever, but it helps to pass the time.

Victor laughs. "Fact: Dean is exaggerating."

"Fact: there is no way that she can get those ten-year-olds to behave like such little angels without nutritional back-up," Dean retorts.

"Fact: maybe they don't like your face," Jo suggests helpfully. "Also, fact: personally, I can't _wait_ to get rid of my group." She glances over her shoulder cautiously before she says anymore: last time she was having a good long bitch about the children she was looking after, Alistair had popped up out of nowhere like a freaking poltergeist to tell her that '_if hard work is too much for you, my poor, delicate princess, then perhaps you should give up, go home, and stop taking the money of paying customers in exchange for your half-hearted, piss-poor attempt at child-minding'_. So quoth the dickbag. Seeming to find the coast clear, she adds, "This fortnight has been agonising."

Dean and Victor exchange smug looks. They communicate through head tilts and agree to let Victor voice the obvious. "Fact: Jo just gave an opinion and therefore loses the game."

"Alright – _fact_: Jo hates this game!" She bends down and hooks a thumb into the back of her sneakers to pull it off. She yanks off her socks too and motions as though she's going to throw them at Victor, but pretends to vomit smelling them, and instead balls them up in her shoes, carrying the whole bundle by the laces.

"Fact," Victor sighs, folding his arms. "Victor is actually going to miss his group!"

"Fact: Victor's gonna get thrown in the sea."

They tread slowly across the sand, finishing their sandwiches leisurely without the pressure of shouting cafeteria staff, plus Zachariah standing over them to remind them all that they need to hurry up and get back to their four-foot-nightmares.

"For real, though, I'm watching true love blossom in my group." Victor ducks when Dean kicks sand up at him for ditching the game. "Seriously – none other than _Sammy Winchester_ has been sighted linking pinkie fingers with a girl. If he doesn't marry Jess, I'm sueing the universe."

"He's eleven. He isn't marrying anyone," Dean says severely. He can feel his protective-brother hackles rising, defensive.

"Fine! Fine." Victor holds his hands up to placate Dean and takes a step away. "All I'm saying is they've swapped phone numbers _and _emails _and _they've watched an entire season of Star Trek on his laptop so far."

Dean swears. "Christ, he told me he left his laptop at home! This whole stop-being-a-geek camp is totally wasted on him."

By this point, they are nearing the end of Chiquita property, where the beach suddenly ends in a heap of sharp black rocks, and scummy water where detritus and litter washes up against the rubble.

Dean and Victor slow down, looking over their shoulders to start heading back, but Jo keeps walking. She drops her socks and shoes in the sand, gives the rocks a moment's quiet contemplation, and then starts to climb.

"Jesus, what the hell are you doing?" Victor exclaims incredulously.

"Thanks, but you can call me Jo," she calls back, grinning as her high blonde ponytail catches in the wind that is normally held back by the wall of rock. "Relax. There's a whole smooth area here – I'm not the first person to do this." She plants her hands solid on the top and peers over.

"What's up there?"

"Not much... I think it's just the rest of the beach, all the way to Alben." She kneels at the top of the rock and squints out. "Yeah... there's a bar a little way up... and some place I think you can rent canoes, but we have enough of those. Still – I can see why people would climb over here." She twists around, sitting like king of the castle, and smiles down regally at Dean and Victor. "It's like a little place where Dracula and the Jolly Green Asshole can't find us. _And_," she adds wickedly, "how strict do you think that divey bar is about ID?"

"Okay, get down from there," Victor says. "You're officially a bad influence on us all."

"Oh, come off it. You were corrupted when I found you." Jo clambers down easily and lands on both feet like a gymnast in the sand. "Ta-da! That Casteel guy, though – now there's a guy I could twist into a monster."

"Hey, leave Cas alone," Dean says, scowling. "He's cool."

Jo scoops up her shoes and walks back towards them. As she approaches Dean, she claps him on the shoulder with one hand. "Of course he is," Jo says sweetly, and gives him her most charming smile – which, to Dean, is extremely unsettling. He doesn't want to think what that smile is thinking. However, Jo says no more, and leads the way back to camp.

**ooo**

**Week 2, Day +63**

Dean and Castiel's kayak tournaments become a regular fixture. It turns out that every time one of them has Water Sports, the other will have volleyball – or at least, they're _supposed _to. Instead, they run down to Jo and Ash on hut duty, book out every kayak in the damn camp, and row hard for the buoy. And then they fight.

They pitch the eleven-year-olds against the ten-years-old in what Dean calls a brutal fight to the death, but which is really more of a clumsy, timid battle of balance and coordination, rather than actual murder skills. Then again, it's also supposed to be primarily a competition for the kids, but due to popular demand, people want to fight Dean or Castiel. They both dutifully let themselves be embarrassed and beaten by every person in both their groups – except for Sam, with whom it rapidly become a sort of water-borne Spartacus, in Dean's case at least – but every session, it eventually becomes the Dean versus Castiel show.

Dean is heavier, but Castiel is fast. For every blow that Dean puts all his weight behind, Castiel will dodge out of the way, try to get him to overbalance; for every time that Castiel uses the movement of the waves to duck to one side and slice at Dean's side, Dean will suddenly come back in full force, nearly getting him in the head before Castiel reacts and brings his oar up defensively.

It's probably something sinister in human nature, way back from the time of gladiators and creepy Roman emperors who want to see heads get sliced, but there is nothing the elevens and tens think is better than seeing Dean get his ass kicked.

Because he does – every time, without fail.

The fight will reach a stage where Dean thinks he's got it, oars clashing like samurai swords, kayaks rocking back and forth dangerously, when he thinks that at last the fact that he's an inch taller and about five pounds heavier will come in handy – he'll chop down towards Castiel's kneecaps – Castiel will twist his paddle around to block it, and then the other side of his paddle comes up and hits Dean in the face – Dean reels back – Castiel levels the paddle horizontally and pushes it into Dean's stomach – Dean overbalances – and then the smarmy asshole will balance his oar in one hand so that he can reach out with the other and gently push Dean off his kayak.

It's a little emasculating, to be honest... and it gets better. Sammy has since come up with a rule that says whoever loses the grand finale fight has to swim back. Dean is a hundred percent convinced that this rule would be suddenly rebuked if ever Castiel was to lose, and he isn't sure why the fights where he whoops _Sam_ into next week can't be considered the grand finale, but there you go.

Even better is the way that Castiel paddles very slowly and humiliatingly next to him all the way back, making small-talk.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" Castiel says serenely, gazing across the water to where the land curves around in a short peninsula before dipping away again.

"Screw you, man."

"There's no need to be rude."

"You're an asshole."

"I've been nothing but gracious to you, Dean."

"_Gracious _is going to go up your freaking ass in a second," Dean says breathlessly. It's really hard to get your irritation across when you're trying not to inhale water. The only thing keeping him going is the knowledge that when he gets to dry land, Dean will be back in his element and he can beat the crap out of Castiel. Then who'll be _gracious_?

"You remind me of one of my brothers sometimes," Castiel says, completely ignoring Dean's anger, which is just about the most infuriating thing in the universe.

"Why – was he also a poor loser being made to swim halfway across the Gulf of Mexico?"

"My brother was always terribly _victimised_," Castiel says over him, his tone saccharine and patronising, and when Dean treads water to look up at him, there is this giant fucking _smirk_ on Castiel's face like he thinks he's the funniest person alive and really, that is just _it_.

Dean plants his hands wide and solid on the bottom of Castiel's kayak and shoves up as hard as he can.

Castiel falls out with an extremely satisfying yelp of dismay.

He manages to keep his head above water, clinging desperately to his baseball cap, and scowls at Dean as he gropes for the side of his kayak. Then Dean grabs the back of the kayak and pushes as hard as he can in the direction of the shore.

For a second, Castiel can do nothing but watch the kayak bob further and further away from him with a distraught expression, but then he turns to glare at Dean.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" Dean says innocently and gets a faceful of sea-water in return.


	4. The One Where Dean Is An Assbutt

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Four**

**Week 2, Day +62**

When Dean knocks on Castiel's door, down the hall from his own, at seven pm Friday night, it's answered by what Dean would hazard at describing as a diabetic dwarf feeling homesick for a nudist colony. He comes up to about Dean's armpits; he's eating a Snickers bar; weirdest of all, he is wearing nothing but a pair of really... _really _tight tightie-whities.

"Ya?" the guy asks, looking unashamedly up at Dean.

"Uh. Is Cas here?"

"Yup." The guy steps to one side with a melodramatic flourish that causes way too much _jiggling _for Dean's liking, and then saunters away into the kitchen like a five-foot Tyra Banks.

Dean comes through the door anxiously, not sure whether he should expect a hot-tub orgy in full-swing or at the very least some stoned hippies. The reality is pretty boring though. The apartment is exactly the same as Dean and Victor's – small, grubby, but functional – and Castiel is lying on his back on one of the beds, clad in a fluffy sweater and reading an enormous book.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks with disbelief as he crosses the room.

Castiel looks up and jumps where he's sitting, like he had literally no idea that Dean had even come in. He flushes a little, surprised, and lifts his book so that Dean can see the cover. "Reading the first volume of Tolstoy's _War and Peace_," he says in a very matter-of-fact way, settling it in his lap again to continue reading. "I want to try to finish all three volumes by the end of the summer."

Dean is so totally baffled by Castiel's choice of evening activity that he actually has to shake himself. "_Why_?"

"You know, it's widely under-rated as a novel due its length and complexity, but I'm actually finding it quite compe-"

"No!" Dean interrupts loudly. Castiel blinks, confused. "No, no, no," Dean repeats, trying to make his point clear. "Why are you reading _anything_ – let alone _War and _freaking _Peace_ – on the one evening a week that you get off?"

Castiel tilts his head to one side slightly, little lost owl. "But I-"

"But you nothing." Dean points at the book, taking charge. "Put that away and get your shoes on. Let's go."

Castiel sits up, still frowning. "Where are we going?"

"Out – I don't know. Just... come on, shoes. And – what the hell are you even wearing?" He plucks at the thick, fuzzy material of Castiel's grey sweater. "It's like eighty degrees out!"

"I get chills," Castiel says defensively, retreating deeper into the folds of his sweater like a stubborn turtle.

"Alright, keep the freaking sweater, but let's go."

Swinging off the bed, Castiel proceeds to stumble around the room, searching for his shoes and his keys and his cell phone and, most importantly, his bookmark – squawking _don't dog-ear the pages!_ as he goes – and then finally he's ready, and they thunder down the stairs together to where Jo and Victor are waiting by the bike rack.

"Jeez, what took so long?" Jo comments as they emerge.

"Martha Stewart here didn't want to dog-ear his precious pages," Dean says as he unlocks one of the bikes and throws a leg over it. "This is Cas, by the way."

Castiel shoots Dean a glare and then extends a hand to Jo. "I'm Castiel," he says formally.

"Don't worry, just call him Cas."

"I was not given the name Castiel so that you could butcher it!"

"Dude, _no-one_ can say your name."

It's all coincidence that Dean falls off his bike, but mostly because Jo and Victor are laughing so hard they can't see.

They reach Alben in good time, the sun still with a few hours left in it, and the waterfront is busy. There is a man juggling apples who mesmerises Castiel, and a woman who charges twenty bucks by the hour is especially interested in him, but Dean yanks him away. There's a funfair at the far end of the pier; they get thrown off the bumper cars because apparently Victor was 'too Fast And Furious' for the other kids; Dean claims that the Monster-o-matic weight-lifting game is bust, because he scores a measly thirty-five and Jo gets fifty-six; Castiel spends at least fifteen minutes avidly fishing for floating ducks and wins a giant Spongebob plushie – having never seen Spongebob in his life. They cycle back down the pier as the funfair's coloured lights come on for the night ahead.

Bobby Singer welcomes the new addition to the cafe crew when they drop in for their usual icecream soda – until Castiel announces that he isn't allowed sugar.

"You're not allowed sugar?" Jo echoes sceptically. "Why the hell not?"

Castiel's nose crinkles as Bobby delivers the three usual icecream sundaes – strawberry, vanilla, and pistachio – plus a glass of cold orange juice for Castiel. "My brothers say that it can be addictive and that it clouds one's judgement," he says, watching Dean, Jo and Victor drag their sundaes towards them and dig in.

"Did he also mention that it's _delicious_?" Dean says. He gives a short laugh and pushes his bowl towards him. "Come on, try a little. A tiny spoonful won't get you addicted to anything."

"Hey, don't tell him that or next he'll be stuck on meth," Victor reprimands. "Seriously though – try some. Your brothers don't have to find out."

"Zachariah may tell them," Castiel says, staring down at the icecream. He looks almost wistful, but there is a sharp, obstinate line to his jaw that says he won't be trying any today.

"Whoa, wait – your uncle is Teletubby Number Five?" Jo yelps. Dean elbows her so hard in the ribs that she nearly coughs up her vanilla icecream. She makes a face and quickly amends, "I mean – uh, Zachariah? Really? Tell me more." She stuffs more icecream into her mouth and gives Castiel her most intently fascinated expression.

Castiel sips his orange juice and gently pushes Dean's icecream back towards him. "Yes, Zachariah is my uncle," he says calmly, pretending not to have heard Jo. "He helped us a lot, financially, after the death of my parents. He knows what's best for me."

There isn't much than any of them can say to that.

By the time they leave Singer's, the sun is blurring the Atlantic horizon and the whole pier is cast a glitzy, movie-star orange. There are the distant shrieks of teenagers who _weren't _thrown off the bumper cars; the last calls of birds going to sleep in the hedges that line the narrow brick road; the fizz of fluorescent lights turning on over bars and restaurants. Castiel is the first to reach for his bicycle, but Dean catches the sleeve of his big, stupid sweater and pulls him away, to the middle of the road.

"There," he says, pointing. Following the line of his finger is a small, buzzing red sign that reads _ALL-NITE MOVIE THEATRE. _"_The Horror of Slorr 2: Slorr Strikes Back_!"

"We have to be back in ten minutes, Dean," Castiel says, his low voice tinged with concern.

"But Cas, look! Slorr is... '_bigger and Slorr-ier than ever_'!" Dean reads from the sign, cracking up halfway through his sentence. "It'll be hilarious. Trust me!"

Castiel worries his lower lip between his teeth. "But... we're not supposed to stay out past nine o'clock."

"Weeell... you're also not supposed to eat sugar," Dean replies smoothly. He pulls seven empty sugar sachets from his pocket and waves them in front of Castiel, grinning.

It takes Castiel a long, slow second to realise what has happened. His eyes widen; his jaw falls slack. "My drink," he says, staring at Dean with absolute horror playing openly over his face.

"How'd you feel, sweetie?" Jo teases, throwing an arm casually around his shoulder as she comes to stand beside him.

Castiel tears his gaze away from Dean and turns to stare straight down the street. "I feel..." He pauses, roughly licks his lips, and his eyes narrow thoughtfully. "I feel my judgement is very much clouded," he says at last, "and I'd like to take that opportunity to see just how _Slorr-y_ Slorr will be when he returns."

They don't waste time waiting for any further confirmation.

Tickets are two dollars each – clearly the movie theatre doesn't get many visitors this time of day, or many visitors at all, judging by the state of the ticket booth – and the theatre screening _The Horror Of Slorr 2 _is completely empty. Dean suspects that the movie's unpopularity could be for one of many reasons: the most pertinent of which are that the movie is absolutely shit, and that it is entirely in German, except for one scene where a very fat, stereotypically American tourist is eaten whole by Slorr himself.

By this time, the sugar has taken effect.

Castiel laughs at everything. He laughs at the death scenes; he laughs at the slapstick comedy of the detective trying to overcome Slorr; he nearly pisses his pants when Jo and Victor get up to jump over the seats and perform a parody of one of the particularly bad fight scene, using rolled-up movie magazines as swords.

They wonder how they are getting away with such ridiculous behaviour until Dean peeks into the tape booth at the back, where the guy in charge of the film reel is fast asleep on the deck. After about forty minutes, the current reel runs out and the guy doesn't change it over, so the screen is left flickering white and eye-searingly bright. Jo screeches that she's going blind; Dean and Victor make obscene shadow-puppets out of their hands.

Their bikes are still chained outside Singer's cafe when they come out, and the sky is black and crystal. The only lights are gaudy funfair-fluorescence and as they pedal down the pier, they contemplate aloud the possibilities of being murdered on the dark footpath back through the woods and the sugar plantations, and consider who is the cutest and who they could sacrifice first in order get away.

"They just wouldn't!" Victor is adamant that they wouldn't come anywhere near him. "Seriously, unless we were getting mugged by Mexicans or something, no-one – _no-one_ – is going to go after the black guy."

"That is so racist!" Dean protests. "Why do I have to be the girly-looking one? I swear your eyelashes are like the same length as mine!"

"Okay, look, forget I said anything about your eyelashes. And I'm not being racist – I'm just fitting nicely into all _your_ crazy race stereotypes," Victor laughs. "If I had a dollar for every time I was specifically called out and checked for knives going into a shopping mall, I wouldn't even need to come on this camp."

"Fine, but if anything, they'd go for Jo – she has boobs and everything!"

"It would not necessarily be me!" Jo says indignantly, free-wheeling down the hill from Alben. "Just because I'm a girl, okay, but I can probably fight my way out of a bad corner way better than all of you! I'm telling you, they'd take Cas."

At last they all agree. Small and skinny, with those eyes and that bone structure, Castiel is dead meat. Castiel doesn't argue, just kind of frowns.

"Hey – how about we _don't_ get mugged anyway?" Jo says, and she suddenly turns off to the side, disappearing down a narrow footpath through two thick walls of sugar plant.

Swearing blind as they grab the brakes and nearly come off their bikes, the boys screech to a halt. They back-pedal, manoeuvre around, and follow Jo through the maze of sugar stalks. It's dark and there are ruts in the path where stalks have fallen down and Dean is just praying _please don't let me die here please don't let me die here_

"If we get abducted by aliens, I swear to God, Jo," Victor yells, "I will freaking probe you _myself_!"

Jo's laughter is distant, high-pitched and manic. "Kinky."

Then suddenly they are bursting out onto a worn dirt road that twists up and west back to Alben, bobbled unevenly with grass – but, more importantly, is only separated from the beach by a thin metal chain. Dean brakes immediately before he goes flying over the chain, and then Castiel crashes into him.

"Whoops, sorry, man," Dean says, trying to get out the way, but by this point their tyres are already caught up. "I should have warned you."

"No, I'm sorry." Castiel huffs a short laugh, still giddy from the sugar. "I should have stopped."

"Yeah, actually," Dean teases, grinning. "What was it - you assumed it would be the responsibility of the one in control of vehicle, or something? Smartass."

Castiel doesn't reply, but a smile plays on his mouth as he reaches out to untangle their handlebars where all the brake-lines are twisted into each other. Dean turns his own bike a little but doesn't achieve anything; there is still the bell of Castiel's bicycle is jammed under Dean's brake. There is still the solid warmth of Castiel's leg pressed against Dean's as he pushes the metal back.

"Okay," Castiel says at last, jerking his bicycle back from Dean's and pushing it with his feet until he is clear. Then he swings off and ducks under the chain to where Jo and Victor are waiting and, more weirdly, watching. Castiel's face scrunches up as he looks around, his forehead creasing. "Where are we going?"

"This way!" Victor says, nodding in the direction of camp once Dean has also climbed down from the road. "The beach joins up with Chiquita, don't worry."

Castiel's eyes travel the length of the beach ahead of them, looking faintly displeased. His hands twist on his bike handlebars. "I feel inclined to remind you that cycling on this terrain will be... difficult, at best."

Jo laughs once, another loud, high-pitched bark, and promptly remembers why she hates her laugh. She covers her mouth. Then, a moment later, she uses that hand to point directly into Castiel's face. "You talk like Inspector Gadget. I like you."

"So you keep saying," Dean mutters as he peels off his socks and stuffs them into his discarded sneakers. He then knots the sneakers' laces together and hangs them from the handlebars.

"Alright, keep your panties on!"

Castiel, Jo and Victor follow Dean's lead in removing their shoes and draping them other their bikes before they set off through the darkness, still-warm sand filtering ticklish between their toes. The air is cool and still; the cries and cheers of the fun-fair fade behind them.

"Hey, Cas," Jo announces. "Have you ever played the Question Game?"

Dean and Victor groan simultaneously, talking over each in their attempts to get Castiel to run while he still can. Jo is undefeated champion at this one.

"What's the Question Game?" Castiel asks.

Jo giggles to herself. "Would you like to know the rules of the Question Game?"

There is a beat. Castiel walks in silence, frowning into the distance. Then, very hesitantly, he says, "Are we already playing the Question Game?"

Victor laughs. "Oh, he's good."

"That depends – do you want to continue playing?" Jo asks.

"Will I win something?"

"Why are you so obsessed with materialism?"

"Does my curiosity as to your motive offend you in some way?"

Jo looks down at her feet, trying to get in the zone. Castiel is better than she expected. She lifts her head a moment later. "Whereabouts are you from, Cas?"

"Do you know where Philadelphia, Pennsylvania is?"

"Seriously? You're from Philadelphia?"

"Is that far from where you live?"

"Do you consider Lawrence, Kansas far from Philadelphia?"

"Do you all live in the same town?"

"Would you believe that we all go to the same school?"

Castiel is quiet for a moment and Dean regrets to think that Jo is going to win again. Then he tilts his head up to look up at the sky and says, "Have you known each other for a long time?"

"Are you worried that you won't fit into the group?"

"Is my being cast out a possibility?"

"Hmm." Jo puts a finger to her chin. "Don't you think that would be Dean's decision?"

Dean looks up, surprised to suddenly be brought into their game. He glances at Castiel, and finds him similarly startled. Castiel misses a second or two before replying. "Why would it be down to Dean?"

"He invited you, didn't he?"

"Who else would have invited me?"

"Do you think highly of Dean's decisions?"

"Haven't I already answered this question?"

"What do you think of Dean?"

"Do you not think this game has lost its appeal?" Castiel says suddenly, and when Dean looks at him, he has that familiar awkward scrunch to his nose and eyebrows.

"Stop harassing him," Dean cuts in, wheeling his bike sideways to nudge Jo.

"Is there something the wrong with the questions I'm asking?" Jo pushes, and that occasional bitchy glint to her smile that Dean hates is coming out again.

"Do you enjoy making other people uncomfortable?"

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"_Jo. _Leave him alone." Dean nudges her again with his bike handlebars, except this time it's less of a nudge and more of a slam. "For Christ's sake."

"Seriously," Victor agrees, his tone disapproving. "Enough with the interrogation."

She flounces a little. "_Fine. _Whatever." Then she smirks to herself, still bitchy enough to remark, "I win, though."

"That wasn't a question."

Everyone turns quickly to stare at Castiel, nonplussed. He is gazing straight ahead again, seemingly lost in his own world. He doesn't clarify.

"What?" Victor eventually asks.

Castiel clears his throat. "_'Fine.' _And '_whatever'_. '_I win' _– none of those are questions," he says quietly, and then meets Jo's eyes with an air of calm superiority. "Until that point you _were _winning, but you actually deferred first from question format, so... I win."

Jo's mouth falls slightly open. Dean and Victor crack up at the same time into loud laughter, cheers and exclamations of how badly Jo got _told._

"You sneaky little bastard," Jo says, but there is respect in her tone. She's never been out-witted before. She presses her lips tight together and shakes her head in disbelief. "Yeah. Yeah, you win. Well, I can see why Dean keeps you!"

"What? I don't _keep _him!" Dean retorts.

"Oh, whatever, you know what I mean," Jo says dismissively, flapping a hand. "I say we keep him anyway – permanently. He talks funny and he takes the piss out of Dean. We all like him - you know what this means, right?"

"Oh, _yes_," Victor grins. "I am definitely down for a little hazing."

Castiel stops walking as they do, and his eyes flash uncertainly from Dean to Jo to Victor and back again. "What's hazing?"

Jo drops her bike and lets it fall into the sand with a gentle thump. Dean and Victor do likewise. Jo skips up to Castiel, smiling broadly, and says, "Hey, sweetie, do you have a phone? Can I put our numbers in?"

"Of course." Castiel digs in his shorts pocket for his cell phone and warily hands it over. He looks defensive, burrowing his bare heels into the sand as he watches the other three's odd behaviour. "What are we doing?"

Once Jo finishes keying in their numbers, she slips the phone into her pocket – Castiel makes a low noise of protest – and then suddenly, while he's distracted by casual theft, Victor and Dean are upon him, grabbing a leg and an arm each and lifting him into the air. What they aren't expecting is for Castiel to fight. In the first second, Victor is reeling back from a kick in the face, and Dean can't stop laughing hysterically as he ducks and dodges Castiel's flailing fists.

"Jo – _help_ – and get his dumb sweater off!" Dean adds at the last minute, thinking that if Castiel really does get 'chills' or whatever then they'd better not give him pneumonia. "_Jo!"_

Cackling demonically, Jo grabs Castiel's skinny wrists as best she can with one hand and strips him of his sweater with the other – he gets in another kick to Victor's shoulder – and then Dean laughs, "for Christ's sake," - flips him over and hauls him over his shoulder, fireman-style like his dad taught him. Then, as Victor and Jo are reduced to fits of giggles by the bikes, and as Castiel yells and flails, Dean runs lopsided down to the shoreline.

"Dean – _Dean_," Castiel shouts. "Don't – _don't you dare-_"

But by then it's too late. Dean wades in past his knees and throws Castiel off – but Castiel has two handfuls of Dean's shirt, and Dean gets dragged in too.

The water is icy cold and the shock it gives Dean is almost painful, and before he can register what his body is doing, he sucks in a mouthful. Then he sits up, coughing and spluttering, and looks up to see Castiel climbing to his feet, drenched. The sight of Castiel, climbing out of the dark water like Slorr himself, thin T-shirt clinging to him and dark hair flattened over his head in sodden clumps, makes the salt burn absolutely worth it.

Dean rocks back, laughing his ass off until tears stream from his eyes, and all Castiel can do about it is shove Dean over back into the water. He looks only half-heartedly pissed-off and when Dean tries to stand up and slips on a patch of seaweed, he has to really fight not to smile.

"You..." Castiel grits out, scowling. "You are such a – such a – _such an assbutt_!" he manages, and it makes Dean laugh all the harder for his pathetic attempt at swearing.

"Wow, Cas, you really told me!" he cackles as he scrambles inelegantly up. Castiel pushes him again, but this time it's his own feet that skid out uncontrollably and he ends up clinging to Dean for support.

They find themselves holding onto each other, shoulders and arms all interlocked, as they stagger out of the water, and at the same time pushing feebly at each other. Castiel shoves at Dean's chest, scrabbling; Dean pushes his face away. Castiel untangles their arms and walks a little way away from Dean, scowling.

"So that's hazing," Dean tells Castiel with a grin as they make their way back to Jo and Victor. He follows Castiel and slings an arm around his shoulder. "I don't know how it started – I think Jo has some crazy feminist obsession with getting people to prove their worth."

Castiel grumbles to himself a bit more about how much he hates Dean, but leans into his arm. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "What's the point?" he asks sourly.

"You're basically one of us now," Dean says cheerfully, squeezing Castiel's shoulder. "I mean, we've never tried this with a guy from Philadelphia, but there you go. Once you've been thrown into the sea, it's kind of a forever deal, too – so yeah. No matter what you do, no matter how bad or how stupid, we'll still be here to dunk you in the Gulf of Mexico."

"Gosh, that's such a beautiful sentiment."

"Hey, shut up, man. I was trying to be profound." Dean takes his arm away from Castiel's shoulder and bumps him hard with his hip. "Asshole. Besides, you didn't get the worst of it. We made Victor eat an entire tub of a peanut butter. He doesn't even like the stuff."

Castiel looks appalled. "What did you and Jo have to do?"

"Well, my family has known Jo's family forever, so we didn't really do any of that... although if it's any consolation, once Jo kicked my head into the sandpit!"

This bit of trivia doesn't seem to make Castiel feel any better. By the time they reach the discarded bicycles again, he's starting to shiver in the cool night air, so Victor tosses him his lumpy sweater, calling out a congratulations. Jo swans over to kiss him on the cheek and slap him on the ass before dragging her bike out of the sand and continuing.

Castiel and Dean stand left behind as Jo and Victor set off, staring after them – Dean still a little hysterical and silly, Castiel bewildered and cold.

"You okay anyway?" Dean checks as they haul their own bikes back up. "That wasn't too bad, was it?"

"No, it's alright," Castiel says slowly.

For a second it looks as though he's going to say something else but then he catches himself. He merely looks out over the beach and over the sea, his features completely collected and calm – calm not in that slightly arrogant, superficial way he had when they first met cleaning that communal shower, but like he's really okay with where he is right now.

They pad over the sand in almost total silence. Then, maybe after two minutes of hush, he lets out this short, wheezy breath of laughter. His eyes screw up at the corners; the tiniest smile is building on his lips.

Just the sound of Castiel's laughter makes Dean laugh a little too. "What?"

"It's just..." Castiel pauses, licks his lips, and his face twists, considering. "I think this is the longest I have ever gone without worrying about what my brothers will think of me," he eventually admits.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Really? Because, you know, you've still kind of been worrying about Zachariah a lot."

"Yeah. What does that tell you?"

Giving a low whistle from between his teeth, Dean can't help but feel sorry for the guy. "Well, at least you'll be nice and subtle when you turn up back at the housing block dripping wet and salty!" he teases unhelpfully, and is totally unaffected by the disparaging look Castiel shoots him – partly because the way his hair is falling wet into his eyes, he just looks like an angry kitten. They walk on. Dean kicks up dust and decides to apologise anyway. "Okay, sorry. So what were you laughing at?"

"I was just thinking what Zachariah, or my brothers, or my parents would think," Castiel says softly, looking over to meet Dean's eyes, "is they knew that I like the way freedom feels."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, and there's something in the way Castiel is looking at him - quiet and longing and contentment all mixed up like the apple-bobbing buckets or the candy-floss machines with every colour sugar poured in like madness – that makes Dean feel like tonight could go on and on forever and he'd never get homesick.

He doesn't say this though. Instead, he says, "good for you, man". And then he punches Castiel on the shoulder.


	5. The One Where Cas Makes A Sweat Angel

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Five**

**Week 3, Day +61-59**

Saturday morning the kiddies pack up for home, except for one. It's a little sad that Sam is staying here longer than all the other kids, but at least he's only going to be here six weeks to Dean's ten.

Dean stays with him all day to keep him company – listening to him whine about Jess, playing rummy, and even having a Lord Of The Rings marathon on Sam's laptop. Sam kindly invites Castiel, Victor and Jo as well, and while Castiel graciously accepts, Jo and Victor are off honing their survival skills by making giant animal traps – 'in case the next group are worse the last'. Inviting anyone else is kind of a bust anyway because Castiel falls asleep halfway through The Two Towers and wakes up just as The Return Of The King is ending, dishevelled and wanting to know if he missed anything important.

They get their new groups before dinner. Castiel's late – he spends Sunday evenings praying with his uncle – so Dean collects his new group for him. Much to Jo's glee, Castiel now has the evil sevens, accompanied by Dean's old partner, Meg. Dean is sharing the nines with Castiel's crazy roommate Gabriel Moscaritolo; Jo has this guy Gordon and the elevens, so at least Sam will still be in good hands; Victor has this weird British girl Bela helping him out with the eights.

When they compare groups, Dean is bold enough to say that this week will be better than the last.

First thing the very next day, one of the girls bites clean through the meat between Dean's thumb and forefinger.

He ends up with a severe warning from Alistair – yeah, another one – for demanding at the top of his lungs if the little girl, Lilith, was _seriously fudging screwing with him_ _right now_ and making her cry. The Bearded Wonder also timidly asks Dean to please refrain from bleeding on expensive camp equipment.

Dean asks Gabriel to swap shifts so that he can avoid the attention of Little Miss Bitey McMunchy until further notice, and ends up on Water Sports duty with Meg Masters, who is okay, easy on eyes with long curly hair, but has a prickly personality. They're leaning bored against the counter of the Water Sports hut, Dean sharpening pencils and Meg flicking through the CD rack for anything that isn't Best Of Eighties, when around the corner comes Castiel wandering.

He's holding the hand of one little girl, listening intently to a story that she's telling him as the others dawdle after him. His baseball cap is balled up in one hand, his head instead crowned with a lopsided daisy-chain tiara, and there is a splodge of sunscreen down one side of his nose.

"-but what happened to the goblin queen?" Castiel is asking, with real concern in his voice. He keeps watching her to better hear what she is saying even as he reaches over the counter for a pencil – except for one moment when he looks over and says warmly, "Hello, Dean" – but then he's gone again, entranced by the seven-year-old's epic tale. Wow. It looks like Castiel has actually managed to tame the little monsters that everyone else was convinced were the spawn of the devil. Kudos to him.

Dean gets to passing out oars and buoyancy aids, though Meg is clearly happy to just sit watching Castiel, rolling the end of her pen suggestively against her lower lip.

"You teaching these kids or are they teaching you?" Dean jokes when Castiel finally drags himself away from the story to come and get his own lifejacket.

"You wouldn't be laughing if you knew anything about the goblin queen's tyrannical rule," Castiel replies seriously, punching a hole through the slip of paper detailing how many kayaks he is taking out, and sliding his clipboard over the counter. "Ten years of fear and oppression, Dean, and no hope for reprieve – and a large, please."

"No way, dude. Last time you fell in, your jacket ended up over your head. You're a medium," Dean tells him firmly, fetching him a buoyancy aid in the smaller size. "And you know that this whole 'tyrannical rule' isn't real, right?"

"I daresay it felt very real to the citizens of Fairyland." Careful not to dislodge his daisy crown, Castiel hooks a thumb into the back of his polo shirt collar and tugs it smoothly over his head, the twist and stretch of muscle faintly visible under his skin - before bundling it up and tucking it away with his cap on a little shelf built into the front of the counter. "Thanks." Long, narrow, pale where his shirt doesn't let him tan, he leans over the counter to take the jacket from Dean and slips into it – and then he's stepping away backwards. "Anyway, I'll tell you about it later."

"Uh, yeah," Dean says, blinking back into the here and now. "Okay. Can't wait."

Castiel twists on his heel and jogs down to the shoreline with his eight-year-olds. Dean's fingers fidget on the counter-top.

"Ooh," Meg drawls, her voice low and humming. "I would bang that like a screen-door in a hurricane."

Dean swivels slowly to stare at her.

Meg looks over at him from the corner of her eye and cocks one eyebrow. "What?" she asks witheringly.

Dean makes no comment. He just clears his throat and gets to making himself busy. After all, there are still a lot of pencils that need sharpening.

**Week 3, Day +57**

Jo is on duty over at Equestrian when Dean comes jogging down the steep dirt path through the trees, his nines trudging along behind him and trying not to fall to their deaths. At the bottom of the hill, the ground plateaus briefly, creating enough space for a small wooden hut and a medium-sized paddock for the horses. Jo is straddling the counter and reaching up to attempt to fix the hut's crooked sign.

"Gimme a second." Mouth full of screws and bolts, and calls back into the hut, "_Garth_!"

Dean glances behind at his kids, who are suddenly no longer wilting and exhausted like they have been all day at samba and athletics, but now, at the sight of horses, are exuberant and raring to go. He turns back at the sound of Garth swaggering out of the hut to assist them. Garth is... _enthusiastic_ and helpful in a sort of accidental, _the-lights-are-on-upstairs-but-only-because-he-forgot-to-turn-them-off-along-with-every-other-electric-applianice-in-the-house-plus-the-gas-stove _kind of way, but nice enough. "Hey." Dean nods at him. "Can we get twelve horses?"

"Sure thing," Garth says. He vaults over the side of the counter – catching his foot on the side, and nearly face-planting on the way down, but making a miraculous recovery – and leads Dean off to the paddock.

It takes ages, as ever, to sort out the whole group, partly because there will always be at least one girl who wants to throw a tantrum because she wanted the white pony and some little slut over there got her instead, but eventually they're good to go.

"Hang on!" Jo is suddenly striding out of the hut, lifting a saddle and reins off a hook on the fence as she passes. "I'm coming with you. Garth, you can hold down the fort for a while, can't you?"

"Jo, I was _born _ready," Garth tells her suavely, which doesn't entirely make sense, but Jo just pats him on the back and accepts it. She saddles up quicker than anybody else and swings easily onto her horse in a fluid, natural kind of movement that Dean is just a tiny bit jealous of. She's making his shitty horsemanship more obvious, but then again, she has been riding horses almost since she could walk.

"Everyone ready to go?" Dean confirms, standing beside his horse, rein in hand, and looking around his charges to remind them all about their buddy-buddy system. He really doesn't want anyone to suddenly going to topple off their horses down a ravine. "Okay? Jo, lead the way."

With a neat kick to her horse's sides, Jo sets off at the front of the group and Dean, trying his hardest not to humiliate himself, heaves himself inelegantly into the saddle. He manages to get on okay, except his shorts are all rucked up painfully at the front - he's got to get far enough in front of the kids to be able to adjust himself without it being considered sexual assault, _stat_.

"Jesus Christ," Dean gasps, wincing as he urges his horse into a trot to catch up to Jo, who just laughs as he sorts himself out. "I am probably never going to be able to have children."

"Aww. Lisa will be so disappointed," Jo quips, flashing him a knowing look.

Finally comfortable, Dean sits upright and sighs with relief. "We can always adopt," he says airily. "Lots of beautiful Vietnamese kids or something. Go over to Sudan with a big-ass baby-shaped basket – I'm telling you, Brangelina better watch out."

Jo groans. "Oh my lord, I was only joking - are you really still obsessed with this whole Lisa thing?"

"Well, yeah." Dean frowns, the _duh _evident in his tone of voice. He doesn't understand how after three weeks on camp, Jo still hasn't grasped this concept. "That's the only reason I'm here, after all."

Jo doesn't reply. She nudges her horse on as the ground comes to a steep incline, the path winding narrowly up through the trees. The sun falls dappled on the ground in pools and stripes of light; the crunch of twigs under the horse's hooves and the tranquil rustle of leaves give the woods a soft, idyllic feel, except for the whiny chatter of kids behind them who can't make their horses do what they want them to do. In front of Dean, Jo sways in the saddle. Dean has known her long enough to recognise that the set of her shoulders is irritated.

"What?" Dean demands, pushing his horse a little harder so that it follows Jo's more closely.

"Just..." Jo trails off. She gives a frustrated little huff and gestures ambiguously in the air with one hand. "Maybe if you weren't so focused on this whole Lisa obsession of yours, you could actually open your freaking eyes and see something more important."

"Like what?" Dean says sceptically. "What could I possibly be missing out on by going after Lisa? Uh, let's see. Getting laid? No. Getting a girlfriend? Again, no. Being happy forever?" Dean chuckles, shaking his head. In his opinion, Jo is the one who needs to open her eyes. "Sorry, Jo, but I'm not seeing your point."

A high-pitched shriek makes Dean slow down to look back over his shoulder to check that everyone is okay. If anyone has fallen off here, they will most probably roll all the way down to the bottom via several tree trunks. It would be uncomfortable, to say the least. However, the nines all seem happy enough, except for Mini-Bitch Lilith. Much to his delight, her horse keeps nearly pitching her over its head when it stops to nibble on some grass. He watches her clinging angrily to its neck and figures she'll be okay; maybe she can hold onto the reins with her razor-sheep little teeth.

He twists back around in the saddle to hear Jo trying to pitch her dumb idea again.

"I just think that Lisa is like... some big, stupid dream you've had since you were a kid, you know?" Jo is saying tentatively. "And maybe you're getting a little old for it. Maybe you should start focusing on what's real."

Ahead of them, the ground levels out and the trees grow sparser; Dean uses this opportunity to trot forwards again so that he can walk his horse next to Jo. He has a mind to say something really profound and insightful that will put her back in her place with regards to how perfect a couple Dean and Lisa will be, but he's coming up blank – and then he is whipped sharply in the face by a thin unseen branch. "Oh my _jesus fudging sherbert_," he yelps, slapping a hand up to comfort his poor stinging nose. "Christ!"

He opens his streaming eyes, seeking sympathy, but Jo is wheeling her horse around and heading back the other way. She calls back to him that she's going to check on the kids at the back of the line, make sure that they're coping okay, and then she's gone, blonde ponytail bouncing behind her.

**Week 3, Day +54**

The second hand of Dean's watch pulses lazily closer to twelve and Dean never takes his eyes from it. His kids are off running up and down the field, alternating jumping-jacks with suicide-sprints, but he couldn't care less. It's Friday. He is less than twenty seconds from freedom.

"Come on, nearly there," Dean calls to encourage the members of his group who are slouching tiredly and declaring that they're going to die if they have to run anymore. "Just a little more!"

Ten seconds. Dean's eyes flicker up to watch the nines and then back to his watch.

Six seconds. Dean can almost taste it.

And then – yes – _yes –_ the hand hits twelve and Dean can't help but pump his fist excitedly into the air. "_Yes_," he exclaims. "Alright, guys, that's a wrap – and I will see you all first thing tomorrow morning!"

The kids drag themselves towards him, fighting for breath as the sweat drips off their chubby little bodies. Some of them manage an exhausted goodbye; most of them just give the death-stare, like if they were old enough to beat the shit out of him, they'd have done it long ago. Dean doesn't care. He's already off and in the distance.

Yesterday evening, Dean had gone to see Missouri and Pamela in the main office to ask if he could exchange the mind-blowingly-super-duper behaviour of him, Jo, Victor and Castiel for being allowed to skip camp dinner and go out on Friday. The staff had been reluctant but had eventually come around – and so here's Dean now, sprinting back for the housing block. They're free tonight and they're losing daylight.

He jumps the fence separating the housing block from the sidewalk that winds all the way through camp and crashes into Jo as he's heading upstairs, three steps at a time. They find themselves racing as they go – except that Jo has one more storey to climb, and she swears colourfully at him as he peels off down his corridor. "_See you in ten_," rings down from the stairwell as Dean leaves her behind and gets into his apartment.

Dean nudges the door with his heel as he goes past but doesn't even bother closing it properly before he's tearing the stupid itchy cap off his head and hurling it towards his bed. He grabs a towel, plus any pair of boxers he can find that don't smell like sea-water, ball-sweat and his growing hatred of small children – and he dashes down the hall for the communal shower. He switches the water on ice-cold, feeling like he'll probably have to scrape the day's dirt and sweat off him with a spatula, but at least he won't stink.

He's already taken seven minutes of his allocated ten. Boxer-clad, Dean hurries back through to his apartment; Jo, Victor and Castiel are already in there, fresh-faced and damp from their own showers, and waiting.

"Sorry, just gimme a sec-" Dean balls up his wet towel and hurls it blindly in the direction of his bed, before digging through his duffle-bag for clothes. "Damnit, where're my..."

"Shorts?" Victor asks, hooking his foot under them where he finds them on the kitchen floor and flipping them towards Dean.

"Yes! Victor, you complete me," Dean says passionately, grabbing them out of midair and trying not to fall over as he pulls them on.

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, let's _go_," Victor says impatiently; beside him, Jo taps her foot for emphasis and holds the apartment door open pre-emptively.

And as Dean stuffs his newly-socked feet back into his sneakers, reaching for where his shirt has somehow draped itself over the bedside lamp, he find Castiel watching him, blue eyes drifting slowly over his chest and stomach. Something spins nauseatingly in Dean's stomach and there is a rush of heat under his skin; he yanks his shirt firmly over his torso and says, "What?"

Startled, Castiel's eyes snap up to meet Dean's. "I-" he starts, pink flush edging up his neck. "Your freckles are – I think they're getting worse."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Doctor Dermatology." He jerks his head in the direction of the door and they run out and down towards the bicycle rack.

They ride hard for Alben, the long uphill stretch through the plantations made more difficult by the sun still high in the sky and the rush of heavy farm traffic coming down from the town in rush-hour. From time to time, when the road weaves east on its course for the city, the hills fold away and the ocean stretches glittering into the distance. Passing the rows of houses on the outskirts of town, they bank right towards the pier and head straight for Singer's. Cheap sandwiches and Cokes - they aren't going out for a gourmet banquet, they're going out for the sake of escaping Camp Chiquita, and nothing has ever tasted better than a BLT.

"Here you go," Bobby says as he delivers their food, fancy as one-dollar-ninety-five gets you – except the toothpick through one of the sandwiches has a little extra cube of cheese and an olive impaled on it, and when it's put down in front of Jo, she gives Bobby the biggest, sugariest smile ever to grace the planet.

As soon as Bobby's out of earshot, Victor points at Jo's boobs and says sourly, "You need to have those confiscated. The treatment you get is just not fair."

"Screw you," Jo tells him. She lifts her hand to cup around the bottom of them. "These biological babies have meant the oppression and discrimination of women since the freaking Stone Age. I've been liberated, alright – I'm cashing in my _feminine wiles _for all they're worth as back-payment for the last three millennia."

"Are you seriously talking about historical equality to the black guy?" Victor laughs with disbelief.

"Sweetie, you can't keep using your _impoverished minority _thing," Jo argues back. "You're one of the wealthiest guys I know!"

"Your people kept my people as slaves!"

Dean stuffs the remainder of his sandwich to stifle his laughter. He teases, "Well, as a white male in the majority, I'm just going to happily sit over here oppressing you all."

"Well, technically, your complexion makes you a genetic mutation," Castiel says distractedly, taking great care to straighten the edges of his sandwich before eating it.

If there is anything that can stop Jo and Victor from bickering, that is it. They immediately shut up and start howling with laughter as Dean reddens – unfortunately, making his freckles stand out more starkly.

"My mom has freckles too," he insists, hating the universe would swallow him whole or at the very least let him stop blushing. "It isn't a mutation! Jeez, thanks, Cas." He shoves at him, scowling. "You're really doing great today on filling your make-fun-of-Dean's-freckles quota."

Socially inept as ever, Castiel, who had looked up with surprise when everyone started laughing, as though he had no idea that his sarcasm could be interpreted as funny, now flinches. Much to Dean's satisfaction, he also blushes - although _his_ is only a silly sort of pink flush through his neck and high on the ridge of cheekbones, which is acceptable in public.

There is a beat now before Castiel can apologetically meet Dean's eyes. "Earlier, I hadn't intended to mock you," he says awkwardly, his nose screwing up as picks his words. "I just – your freckles are actually... endearing."

Dean just blinks at him, not sure how to respond to that – or how to respond to the embarrassed pink still creeping under Castiel's skin. Something about the whole set-up sets his toes and fingertips tingling like pins and needles. "Right," he says hesitantly. "Okay."

Then Bobby is coming around with the icecreams: the same boring vanilla as always for Jo, a pistachio and chocolate for Victor, a strawberry sundae for Dean, and for Castiel, his very own, very small mint-chip scoop. Bobby says that he's glad that their bad influence on good kids is keeping him in business, at least, but he has the barest hint of a smile as he passes Castiel's dessert over.

"Aw, look," Jo says, clasping a hand to her heart as Castiel cautiously puts a spoonful in his mouth. "Our little baby's all grown up!"

They pay up after and go out to the pier, brightly-lit and newly-decorated with a small, old-fashioned Ferris wheel as another funfair ride clears out for another town. They delight in the fact that it's only just turning seven-thirty pm now, when they would normally be only just be arriving , and after that, Castiel seems to be on a roll with sugar. He shares a corn-dog with Victor but buys a stick of purple candyfloss all for himself; he does end with the candyfloss mostly stuck in his hair and on his face, admittedly, but at least he's enjoying it. Castiel also wants another turn at fishing for floating ducks but is dragged away, because he could easily while away their entire precious evening watching those rubber duckies go around and around.

Jo darts into a cheap tourist shop and comes out five minutes later, crowing, "_Aha_! Finally!" and bearing a crappy disposable camera aloft. "I've been looking for one of these everywhere! Now smile, boys!"

Victor and Dean are already standing side-by-side, discussing the logistics of murdering someone on a Ferris wheel, when she yells at them; Dean quickly throws out an arm to snag around Castiel's unsuspecting neck, dragging him into his shoulder, and smushes his cheeks stupidly with his hand. _Click._

The camera mechanics whirr happily and Castiel fights out of Dean's grasp. "Ow," he says grumpily, massaging his face.

"Oh, stop complaining," Dean tells him, pushing playfully at Castiel's head.

They spend a good five minutes debating whether a Ferris wheel ride would be lame or just plain fun before Victor declares that he bets Jo is still scared of heights, and that settles it. They all climb on.

The ride is slow and jerky and Dean is pretty sure that he can hear bolts falling out of the structure around them – he blames it on Castiel piling on the pounds after that one mini mint-chip – but it hauls them up higher than any building in Alben, over the sprawling beach properties with their backyard pools and barbeques, over the lively bars where guys are flipping cards and playing pool and drinking ice-cold beers, over Camp Chiquita, and over the shrill synthesisers of funfair music, which is good enough for Dean. They snap a couple of good pictures too – none with Jo in, of course, because she's too busying clutching the bar tight, white-knuckled and grey-faced. She brags about how she isn't scared anyway until the ride creaks to a stop, leaving them at the top.

"_Why have we stopped?"_ she panics in an octave that only dolphins can hear comfortably.

Castiel peers over the side of the car for a moment. "It seems that the bottom of the structure is starting to collapse," he reports back calmly.

_Shit. _Heart stuttering frantically in his chest, Dean leans right over the side to check, but finds the whole thing structurally sound. He glances back at Castiel, bewildered, and finds him sporting that familiar asshole little smirk. Castiel catches Dean's eye and doesn't speak, but merely raises his eyebrows.

Dean falls back against the back of his seat, letting out a long breath of relief. "Man, that was just cruel," he says, trying his absolute hardest not to laugh, but now there's no longer that thrill of adrenaline and terror building in him, he grins and reaches over the car to give Castiel a high-five. Jo kicks them both.

At the bottom, all three play up feigned surprise that Jo doesn't want to go again – but they also turn a blind eye and don't say a word when she promptly throws up in a trashcan. She comes back pale but remarkably composed, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and announces that she'd like to buy some breath-mints before they continue. Castiel pays for them, plus an energy-drink, and then trails around after her looking guilty for a while before she regains enough strength to give him a dead arm.

Quarter to nine. They should be heading back now. Instead they find a bar advertising tonight as karaoke night, which frankly seems too stupid a proposition for any of them to turn down.

They push inside, slipping furtively past beefy guys in suits who want to check their IDs, and weave through a throbbing mass of sweaty, tipsy bodies to get to where the action is.

"Dean," Castiel tries to shout over the noise. He reaches out, scrabbling to grab Dean's arm. "_Dean_ – I don't know any of these songs!"

_Sweet Child O' Mine_ is playing overhead, accompanied by the tuneless air-guitar and crooning of every man and woman present. Dean whips back to stare at Castiel like he's just transformed into a slobbering five-headed beluga whale. "You've never heard this song?" he echoes, looking horrified. "Oh my god, Cas. I am going to have to seriously educate you."

Castiel just nods, still clinging to Dean's arm and trying not to get dragged away by the people moving heavily past him. They have to take slips from the bar to fill out, and then dump them in a jar. Jo picks REO Speedwagon; Victor chooses some cheesy ballad from the sixties'; Castiel asks drily if he can request Mozart's Requiem before deciding to stand on the sideline for this one; it is Dean's choice, however, that comes up first, albeit after two Celine Dion renditions and one drunken cover of The Black Eyed Peas.

As soon as the opening guitar comes in, Dean just about roars with excitement. He twists around and jabs Castiel in the ribs. "This is a band called AC-DC," he yells over it, beaming so broadly it threatens to split his face, "and they are one of the best things ever to happen to music. Come on!" He takes Castiel by the wrist and pulls him up to the space cleared where a tiny TV stands along with a handful of assorted, badly-wired microphones.

"I don't know the words, Dean!" Castiel says urgently, backing away from the man trying to hand him a mike. Unfortunately, he's anchored by Dean's fingers locked around his wrist.

"It's easy!" Dean reassures him. "There's like, no tune, and the chorus is the same a million times over. Trust me!"

Castiel stares back at him, that little worried crease digging between his eyebrows and his nose just starting to crinkle at the end. "Yeah." His blood is shallow and speeding under Dean's hand. "Okay."

Dean lets go of him but Castiel still stands close, pressed arm-to-arm so that the warmth of his body is sweeping slow into Dean's. The guitar introduction is still building. They share a microphone.

"_RIDING ON THE HIGHWAY / GOING TO A SHOW / STOPPING ON THE BYWAYS / PLAYING ROCK AND ROLL-"_

Jo and Victor and one crazy old man in the back of the bar are the only ones who really cheer them on – Dean is loud, with more enthusiasm than he has talent, and this is when they all learn that Castiel is completely tone-deaf. He goes along with it anyway, stumbling over the lyrics when the intonation changes and frequently glancing worriedly over at Dean to check that he's doing it right. They get to the chorus and Dean almost forgets to sing as he just about swells to bursting with pride.

"_It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll,"_ Castiel shouts tunelessly, awkwardly bouncing to the beat – the only part he can recognise or understand. He looks over at Dean, brow scrunching up in an unspoken question of if he's doing okay, if he's doing justice to this magnificent song, and Dean just puts an arm around him and squishes him tight.

Jo snaps a picture.

**Week 4, Day +50**

The sixth of July is the hottest day that Texas has seen for more than fifty years. News helicopters whirl in slow, lazy arcs like wasps, filming the effect of the heatwave on the beaches. Radios warn parents to keep very small children indoors and recommend abstaining from intense physical exercise. Camp Chiquita is closed for the day.

All activities have been suspended until further notice due to the risk of overheating and dehydration en masse. According to increasingly incoherent texts from Sam, the kids are all piling into whichever cabins have the best air-conditioning. Jo, Dean and Castiel are sprawled on the kitchen linoleum in the boys' apartment, wilting slowly with all the drama and fanfare of dying swans. Victor is perching on the inside edge of the mini-fridge, a privilege for which they had all valiantly fought.

"I'm dead," Jo moans for the hundredth time. "I've died and this is my eternal punishment for stealing money from my mom to buy weed." From her position on the floor, she lifts her arms skywards. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned!"

"Armpits down," Dean yells. "Jesus, Jo – give a guy a warning!"

Jo jerks her arm feebly towards him in the hopes of smacking him but misses. She flops; it's too much effort to try again.

Another text buzzes in from Sam. Dean gropes sluggishly for his phone, flips it up and reads aloud. "_Send help: the air-con has broken."_

"You can kiss my ass, Sam!" Victor shouts at the phone, like he thinks Sam can somehow hear him. "We haven't got _any_ air-con!"

"Shut up - you got the freaking fridge!" Jo says, tipping her head far back against the tiles so that she can see him.

As Dean writes a response to his brother, Castiel sits up, looking revolted and slightly pained. "Oh my gosh, this is disgusting," he says unhappily, wiping a fingertip thoroughly the dewy film of sweat he has left on the floor.

Dean looks over and just laughs. "Dude, you made a sweat angel. That is so gross."

Castiel makes a face and rolls carefully away from it to lie on his stomach. This puts him in much closer proximity with Dean than before – so near that if Castiel uncurled his fingers from where they curve back into his palm, he would brush Dean's thumb or index finger or the still-healing scar between the two with the stitches growing loose and bobbly. Dean notices this. He also notices the white smear of fog that Castiel's breath leaves on the tiles next to his cheek. He notices the gentle slope of Castiel's back, the dip and hollow at the base of his spine, the pale sheen of sweat where his shorts ride low on his hips.

The only thing he does not notice is that Castiel is watching him from under his sweaty muss of hair. When Dean looks up, their eye contact is a trainwreck. Dean flushes red and awkwardly shifts to look back up at the ceiling.

"Have we got any milk left?" Jo suddenly calls.

Victor pulls a half-empty carton seemingly out of his ass and tosses it over. Jo catches it one-handed and retrieves her glass from nearby.

"This is so degrading," she mutters as she pours, trying hard not to slop over the edges.

Thanks to Victor being so picky about hygiene, they've all been forbidden to drink straight from the carton, and the only glasses that they could find in the whole housing block were crazy Gabriel's shot glasses. So here they are. Downing shot after shot of cold milk, like the real cool kids they are.

Jo knocks the milk back and gives a small, dainty burp. "Oops." She holds the carton up and shakes it so that the contents slosh noisily. "Anyone else?"

Castiel twists around where he's lying to take the milk carton from her and then pushes himself up to pour it. Tips his head lazily back, open-mouthed, and swallows once, neat, the bob and pull of his Adam's apple smooth under his skin where it stretches taut and tan.

"Whoa, what are you doing?"

Dean is brought crashing back to earth by Victor's voice. He tears his eyes away from Castiel's throat fast enough to get whiplash, silently chanting _it's the heat it's the heat it's the heat_ like a mantra, and looks over to see Jo peeling off her T-shirt.

"Oh, relax," she scoffs, adjusting a bra-strap. "It's freaking boiling in here! You've all got your shirts off – why can't I?"

"Uh, Jo, I don't know if your mom ever went through this with you," Dean starts in his most patronising voice, "but at a certain age, girls' bodies start to-"

Jo throws her shirt at him. "Asshole. And anyway, it's not exactly a strip-tease here, is it?" she says witheringly. "No-one's interested. I've known you and Victor so long it'd be like incest, and Cas is gay, so it doesn't matter." She climbs to her feet and brings rummaging through a kitchen drawer. "Hey, where did you put that pack of cards?"

"Uhh, under the microwave," Dean say, closing his eyes and relaxing into the cool solidity of the floor. Then, several seconds later, as he listens to Jo clatter and swear through their kitchen, he realises what she has just said. His eyes flash open. "Wait, Cas is gay?"

_It's the heat. It's just the heat._

"Well, I think so." Jo glances backwards. "Cas?"

Dean props himself up on his elbows, peeling away from the linoleum with a horrible slurp, and stares expectantly at Castiel, who is already starting to flush pink from the collarbones up. Castiel's eyes only flicker to Dean's for a split-second before darting away, between Jo and Victor and a particularly interesting speck on the floor. He gives a short nod.

"Oh." Dean considers this. "Well, I'll stop harassing you about getting with Meg Masters, then. Shame, though – she's pretty hot."

Castiel gives a quick, nervous smile at that, and then looks back at Jo, who demands whether they can play Cheat now that the question of Castiel's sexuality is out of the way, and that seems like as good an idea as any.


	6. The One Where Victor Nearly Dies

**A/N: I have some really important exams over the next three weeks, so after this I probably won't update for a while. Sorry! I do have the next chapters ready though muahaha**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Six**

**Week 4, Day +49**

On Wednesday, Dean and Sam get together to call their parents. Sammy, the good son, has been diligently calling their mom every single weekend to let her know how they are, but so far, Dean hasn't spoken to her once. They sit side by side on the steps of Sammy's cabin, nudging each other with their shoulders in play-fight as the line connects.

"Hello?"

"Hey, mom!" they chorus as one, and then Dean cringes a little because it's totally lame to synchronise with your dorky little brother. It's good to hear Mary's voice though; she listens intently to all their stupid stories, laughs in the right places, and doesn't disapprove _too _strongly of Dean's idiotic antics.

Sam teases that Dean has made a friend, which is embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as when you think that his comment prompted in Dean a surge of fond excitement, plus every Dean-and-Castiel story ever. As soon as Dean realises, he flushes hot enough to start a campfire flintless, and gets his back by telling their mom that Sam has got the email addresses of _three girls_! No sooner than Sam had finished moping over Jess' departure, according to Jo he was all up in some eleven-year-old called Becky, only to then move onto some other Ruby chick! It's really not fair – no kid should be this pimpin' in the sixth-grade. It backfires though; Mary is just glad to hear that Sam isn't spending every waking moment on his blog.

Dean passes on that Jo is still alive so that Mary can reassure Ellen in turn, and tries to convince her that they ditched Victor at the airport, to no avail. John isn't around to talk to and Mary has to go out to dinner but Dean promises he'll call back... one day.

**Week 4, +48**

"Kill him!"

Dean's voice is a hoarse rasp in the back of his throat after half an hour trying to motivate his kids, but he's got to admit, as sucky a game as it might be, ultimate Frisbee is pretty freaking hard. He likes to think that he's doing an okay job of encouraging them – compared to Jo, at least, who has ditched the basketball court to join his group.

"_Get up!" _Jo is screaming at one of her elevens who had the sheer _audacity _to trip while trying to intercept the Frisbee. Sam helps up the offending boy, skips merrily out of the path of her temper and gets back into the game like he was born throwing a stupid plastic disc repeatedly back and forth across burning sand.

Dean hops from foot to foot, feeling the calloused pads of his toes sear and prickle uncomfortably. "Come on, Kat," he shouts, clapping his hands together as one of his nines leaps – oh – _yes – _snatches the Frisbee out of the air before one of Jo's elevens can catch it, and hurls it back the other way for Lilith to catch. Dean is still surprised that Lilith doesn't insist on holding it in her teeth, but he guesses there's no accounting for weird behavioural patterns in the spawn of the devil.

**Week 4, +47**

Ellen Harvelle, after hearing through Mary that Jo is alive, becomes increasingly irritated with her daughter and sends a flood of texts ranging from _I'd like to be able to contact you in case anything goes wrong xx _all the way down to _JOANNA BETH STOP GETTING DEAN TO TELL ME YOU'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED AND ANSWER YR PHONE. _Jo thinks it's hilarious, continually prompting both Victor and Dean to text back, adamantly insisting that Jo was abducted by Swedish mafia men who got lost on the way to Disneyland.

_Put Jo on the phone._

"Say – uh, say: '_Sorry Ellen no can do but I can call Santeri back and see what his latest ransom offer is'._ Yeah, put that!"

"Jo, I'm not writing that!"

"Why not?"

"This is totally dumb," Victor says, rolling his eyes. "Your mom's never going to believe you've actually been abducted."

She cocks an eyebrow and she has that dangerous gleam in her eye that promises idiocy and trouble. "Well," she says sweetly, drawing out the word long and slow, "we could always make her believe."

Dean and Victor groan as one, all too familiar with Jo's batshit schemes, but as ever, agree to go along with it, and this is how they find themselves spending their Friday evening staging a kidnap.

Armed with Jo's crappy disposable camera, a length of jump-rope and a five-dollar balaclava, they run around Alben, posing to capture the lengthy and exceedingly dramatic process that they imagine a kidnap would involve. Dean takes on the roll of kidnapper, although he's fairly certain that his sunburn will give him away through the slit in the balaclava.

There's a shot of him tying her wrists and ankles - laughing maniacally - hitching her over his shoulder and sprinting down the pier. Castiel, as the only person that Ellen doesn't already know, acts as Dean's unmasked accomplice, which basically means that he just appears in a lot of photographs looking somewhat lost and confused. Together they 'borrow' a guy's van, posing with Jo tucked ominously away inside... and then make a speedy getaway when the guy comes back hollering. Victor leads the way, yelling _every man for himself_; Jo hobbles, her arms and legs still tied together; and Dean, whose balaclava is riding up past his nose and over his eyes, falls into a dumpster. As cameraman, Victor snaps that up too between bouts of crippling laughter. More kindly, Castiel helps him up and picks a banana peel out of his collar.

Pink with sweat, Dean rucks the balaclava up to his forehead. He stinks like the back end of a diseased horse but at least they lost the crazy van guy. Behind them, Jo is still struggling to catch up.

They get the finished roll of film developed, watching the ink come out dark and glossy, and filter through the kidnap photos for the best ones to seal off in a fat brown envelope addressed _Ellen Harvelle_. They post it off with four stamps – one each, for luck – plus the fervent hope that Ellen will see the funny side. Godspeed.

**Week 4, Day +46**

The life-size, biologically-accurate papier mache heart isn't the weirdest thing Sam has ever received, but it's pretty high up there. On the Saturday of changeover, one of the girls whose email Sam has scribbled in a notebook – a certain Miss beckii_rosen_lala – is in floods of tears when she hands it over, and when she climbs into the shuttle bus to go, she mists up a window with her breath and uses her index finger to enclose their initials in a big heart. Sam's other little girlfriend, Ruby Biancolini, just scowls and turns away, although apparently she has already carved her name into his bedpost.

With a rattle of suspension and a carcinogenic splutter of exhaust, the bus rumbles away. Sam is left alone again.

Dean smacks him on the back in an awkward attempt at reassurance. "Don't worry, there'll be more this time tomorrow," he says lightly.

Sam makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and shrugs away from Dean's hand. "Yeah," he says half-heartedly, turning his back on the empty parking lot. "It's just... you know." He kicks at a loose chunk of asphalt as they head off. "They're not Jess."

Right. Dean has tried a hundred times wrap his head around that Sam's still got a thing for the pigtailed blonde chick from the first fortnight whose one real aspiration in life was to accompany some British guy through time and space in a phone box, but he doesn't get it. Of course, there's no accounting for taste.

"Come on, man." Dean punches him in the arm and jogs ahead, gesturing for Sam to follow. "Are you gonna mope forever or we gonna do something with a whole free day?"

They have hours to fill and nothing to do except bask in the absence of screaming kids. The afternoon is halcyon; hot in that bright, hazy way that spreads up from the sea in swells and ripples, the air thick and syrupy; endless.

It takes half an hour to convince Jo that she's attractive enough to be seen in a bathing suit without a paper bag over her head, and by that time, just about every volunteer in the camp is swarming excitedly over the beach like hyperactive insects. Sammy, for lack of anything better to do, joins them – a little intimidated by the gangly teenagers who whoop and scream and crash through the surf; a little confused by the way that Castiel darts away from Dean whenever he comes near, adamant that he's not enthused by the prospect of being reacquainted with the Gulf of Mexico like last time. They run up and down the cool sludge of shoreline, shrieking and swearing as they try to summon the courage for that last sprint deep into icy water.

When Castiel stands primly in shallows, shivering a little and complaining, Jo lets out a frankly terrifying roar and tackles him into the water. With a strangled yelp, he scrabbles frantically for something to hold him up, and only finds Victor, who he promptly drags down with him. As the only dry one left, Dean is allowed to laugh – until he gets a faceful of sea-water, courtesy of Sam Winchester. The others are then deaf to his exclamations that it'll have washed off all his sunscreen; apparently they aren't concerned that he might turn into one giant freckle or contract skin cancer. Dean lunges to push Sam's head under the water but he is already coasting on the surge of waist-high waves that carry him handily out of reach. With all the heroism of a knight in shining armour, Castiel comes to Dean's rescue by lifting Sam bodily and heaving him into the distance. Suddenly Victor screams, leaping high enough in the air that he almost clears the water, and clings to Dean for dear life.

"What, what, what?" Dean yells, trying to see what's happening as Victor grabs at his face in his attempt to climb up Dean's body and out of the water.

"It's on me," he wails. "Get it off me – someone kill it, quick!" He coils his arms tighter around Dean's neck, kicking out desperately to free his leg from the grasp of whatever monster is trying to kill him.

Glued fast to the back of Victor's leg is a long, slimy strand of seaweed.

"Jesus, it's huge!" Jo yells between bursts of laughter than almost double her over. "Hold still!"

"Fuck you, Jo!"

"I think it may be a piranha," Castiel says gravely, inspecting Victor's leg.

The agonised keening that Victor makes at that will haunt Dean forever as the funniest noise he has ever heard; he almost pees himself. As it is, his knees buckle and he nearly collapses with Victor on top of him.

"Oh god," Jo splutters, peeling the seaweed off- "Victor, it's too strong – I can't – _look out!_" – and she throws it in his face.

Down at Water Sports, all of three hundred yards away, Chuck Shirley hears a piercing scream and looks up from his magazine.

Tears are streaming down Dean's face and he's not entirely sure whether that's because he's laughing so hard he can barely stand up or because Victor's arms have tightened around his neck to the extent that breathing is becoming difficult.

"You are such a little bitch!" Victor rages from his position safely atop Dean, having angrily hurled the offending seaweed back into the sea.

"No, you're just such a moron!" Sam squawks gleefully.

"Shut up, Sammy! Your voice hasn't even broken yet, okay? You can shut right up-"

"Alright, Victor, get down now-"

"_Fuck you guys!_"

"Victor, I can't breathe!" Dean coughs out, straining forwards to massage his windpipe with the hand that isn't supporting Victor's weight. "Come on, man."

"I am never getting down," Victor declares with all the melodrama of a high school Hamlet, despite the fact that he's still got Dean in a koala grip. "There are sharks and weeds and jellyfish and shit down there. You're all playing with fire right now just standing around in the water right now, I swear to god. I am _never _going to come down."

"Never?"

"_Never_."

Well, that sounds as good a challenge as any.

Five minutes later sees Jo climbing onto Castiel's shoulders for the height advantage, and balancing inelegantly with arms thrown out wide. Sam claps and cheers as she and Castiel move together like a zombie pair of Siamese twins, while Victor shouts and tries to get Dean to run away.

"No way," Dean calls back, grinning. "Man up and fight! You've already been beaten by a piece of marine wildlife, dude – your masculinity is seriously on the line here. Come on, she's just a girl!"

"Just a girl! Oh, right – just a girl that's gonna kick his ass," Jo taunts. She nudges Castiel's sides with her heels and, gripping a handful of tufty hedgehog hair to steady herself, points forwards like a jousting warrior. "Forwards!"

Dean pushes one of Victor's knees backwards and ducks to allow him to more easily climb up onto Dean's shoulders. "Come on, man - just a girl, remember?" Dean urges, and on a spur of moment – even though he knows perfectly that Jo could skin him and wear him as a shawl in a heartbeat – adds, "For chauvinism!"

Victor draws a deep breath and gets immediately into the spirit: _"Get back to the kitchen!"_

With a choked attempt at a menacing roar, Dean lurches awkwardly forwards to battle.

"Fancy seeing you here," Dean jokes to Castiel, his voice almost lost under the noise of Jo and Victor sparring, plus Sam's cheers and shouts.

Castiel opens his mouth to respond but then Victor's foot lashes out and catches him in the shoulder. He reels back and stumbles; Jo nearly falls off. When he regains his balance, he staggers forwards and crashes into Dean.

Conversation is lost. They trip and flail and fall into each other, all wet slide of skin and fleeting eye-contact. Dean stands on Castiel's feet twice; Castiel's knee nearly gets him in the balls. They laugh and apologise and exchange awkward smiles. They're silent and still when Jo gets Victor in a sleeper-hold which pins them together. The fight seems slow and dance-like as they move around each other, trying to keep upright. Neither of them really understand what's going on above them – they only know that their role is stay up and to stay close. Dean thinks he can handle that.

As expected, Jo is victorious and sends both Victor and Dean careening inelegantly backwards in the water, to Sam's loud delight. The second fight is Victor's and for the third, Sam versus Dean ends in a bloodied nose and a reluctant admission to call it a draw. When the sun beats down hottest, they climb out dripping and grab their bundled clothes where they lie hot and faded from the sun.

Salt dries glittering on their skin as they sprint and stumble up the sand. A volleyball game is in full-swing further up the beach, sending up fine gold dust and cries of exaggerated agony when unpracticed forearms come back red and blotchy. Dean, Sam and Jo join the team where Meg Masters and Anna Milton are bouncing about in bikinis and wide-brimmed sun-hats; Castiel and Victor join the other side, currently inhabited by Ash Zeigler and Garth Jack.

Match by match, volunteers flock to either fill the spaces on the court or line the sides, yelling insults and encouragement. Castiel becomes the butt of a great deal of teasing as he shuffles awkwardly around trying to smack the ball back, or when he gets hit right in the face and promptly falls back onto his ass. The girls all think he's the cutest thing they've ever seen, which Dean supposes isn't too far from the truth.

They buy paninis and burgers from the stall up by the lobby and eat on the go, grease trickling warmly to their elbows. An overweight seagull loops and caws above them, eyeing their crusty napkins and leftovers until Jo shakes a fist at it. Sam complains about being thirsty and Castiel looks mildly horrified when Dean sleepily suggests that Sam drink his own pee to remedy the problem.

They sprawl out on the grass up from the beach to warm themselves and try not to fall asleep, swapping inappropriate jokes and competing for the silliest stories of idiocy. Grass blades leaving sharp-edged patterns on their backs, they later peel themselves from the now-tepid ground to clear their debris away and run back to the water. They laugh a lot. A lifeguard whistle blows in the distance; Chuck Shirley, whistle in hand, tries to look as solemn as possible atop his observation chair, but ends up looking like a camp mockery of Mr. Universe. Dean's skin is already pink and even Castiel has sunburn bright on his nose.

Time stretches long and languid; every second – running over the sand or stumbling through ice-cold surf or draping themselves inelegantly over cool surfaces, head propped comfortably on Castiel's stomach like he belongs there – seems to last forever. Salt, sweat and strawberry popsicles are a spicy musk in the air that hangs heavy over them and they all feel a little drunk on summer.

"You know what this situation needs?" Jo drawls lazily. She's lying supine in a patch of sunlight, hands under her head; she wriggles as she speaks and then sits up. "Guess."

"I have no idea," Dean mumbles, his voice distorted by the arm thrown over his face to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun.

"The weed Missouri confiscated." Jo huffs out her breath and scowls in the direction of the nearest authority figure, which happens to be The Bearded Wonder on lifeguard duty.

Sam opens his mouth to whine about legality and _mom-will-kill-you_ and _here-are-101-facts-about-why-weed-will-kill-everyone-you-love-and-make-your-head-explode_, but Dean finds a half-eaten bagel in the bushes nearby and throws it at him, along with a muttered threat to tell Mary _just how many _episodes of Battlestar Galactica Sam brought on this camp. While Sam pouts, Dean and Victor make a series a disappointed hums and murmurs of agreement; Castiel frowns.

"Weed?" he echoes uncertainly.

Jo pulls off her giant bug-eye sunglasses to look at Castiel and cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah, weed. It's slang for marijuana, sweetie."

While Sam suppresses a giggle at his social ineptitude, Castiel presses his lips grumpily together and replies, "I know what it means. When did Missouri confiscate it from you?"

Looking somewhat confused, Jo says, "Well, she didn't, actually – it got taken off us by security when we first got here."

Castiel nods slowly, narrowing his eyes to squint into the distance. "Alistair will have it. He's Head of Security as well as Head of Discipline – he has a little drawer full of all the things he finds or confiscates. I know the place."

Dean removes his face from the crook of his elbow and hauls himself into an upright position to stare at Castiel. Jo and Victor exchange a bewildered glance.

Sam is the first to voice what they are all thinking, in conspiratorial whisper that is half-disapproving and half-awed. "Wait, are you suggesting they steal it back?"

Castiel looks between them all anxiously, a faint flush creeping up his neck and chest. "Well," he starts tentatively, "unless you know someone else with access to Zachariah's master key..."

Jo doesn't even let him finish before she bursts out in ugly laughter. "Oh, and to think you used to be so innocent!"

Seeming pleased with the good reception, Castiel's eyes flicker around to Dean before dropping away again. That pink flush hasn't faded yet.

Come six o'clock, a plan is made. Sam is sent back off to his dorm. He had enthralled by the prospect of a real-life Mission Impossible, but over Dean's dead body is he getting mixed up in this sort of rebellious stupidity. The volunteers will be heading down towards the cafeteria for dinner soon, but Dean, Jo, Victor and Castiel aren't hungry. They crouch in the woods adjacent to the lobby and there they wait.


	7. The One Where Zachariah Needs His Jacket

**A/N: I still do have exams but... what can I say? I have a problem. I have a serious problem. Basically, the way this is going to go is that I am NOT going to stop writing over my exams because I don't have that kind of will-power, but I will only update as fast as I write the chapter after this. For example, I'm publishing Ch7 because I've finished Ch8. So it's basically going to be a test of my own powers of procrastination.**

**WARNING: Drug use and general stupidity.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Seven**

**later that evening**

Seven pm. Dinner is in full swing in the cafeteria. The main headquarters of Camp Chiquita are empty.

They are all in their positions. Cell phones set to vibrate warnings of imminent danger. Collars popped for an extra element of badassery. Jo is wearing the balaclava – just 'cause.

The situation is this: the weed is in a filing cabinet, where all the camp's confiscated goodies are stashed. The filing cabinet is in Alistair's locked office. There is a master-key to all Chiquita filing cabinets. The key is on a shelf in Zachariah's office. Castiel knows the code to Zachariah's office, but not to Alistair's; Jo knows how to pick the lock on a window.

Victor stands idly in the lobby, 'waiting for a package to come in from his mom', hands deep in the pockets of his shorts so that he's never further than the press of a button from sending a warning to the others. Jo is already setting off at a run around the back of the building; Dean moves to follow but Castiel suddenly snags the material of his shirt and holds him still.

"I'm going to need your help," he says bluntly, fist still curled into Dean's clothes.

Dean knows that there isn't time to argue. He gives a short nod and lets Castiel lead him past Victor, who is leaning against the arm of a couch with a feigned air of nonchalance; past the front desk, littered with Pamela Barnes' CDs and stumpy tubes of dark lipstick; through the door on the other side which leads through to the managerial offices. They have five minutes.

The hallway opens up on one side to the small, cluttered room used for generic administration, where Dean has been called many times to file boring documents and lick stamps. Still defined by low shelves and clunky, old-fashioned photo-copiers, the hallway continues and leads to four small offices.

As they pass the darkened office labelled _A. Alderman – Security and Discipline_, Castiel and Dean glance inside. A small female silhouette is visible against the faint blue glow of twilight as Jo works on jimmying Alistair's window open. Dean flashes an encouraging thumbs-up and then focuses back on the task at hand.

Castiel swiftly keys in the code locking Zachariah's office, checks once behind him, and then, with a grinding squeal, drags the door open. They slip through and let it screech shut to settle in its frame.

"Now what?" Dean whispers, but Castiel is already striding purposefully across the space to a tall bookcase laden with fat ring-binders and wallets of coloured paper.

Tilting his head up to look at the top shelf, Castiel says, "I need you to lift me."

For a second, Dean doesn't understand. He just stares at Castiel, wondering what exactly he means by 'lift'. Then Castiel turns those blue eyes on him, raising his eyebrows impatiently.

"Wait," Dean hisses incredulously. "You insisted I come with you so that I could _lift _you?"

Castiel scowls. "I'm sorry if I somehow deceived you of your importance in this task, but the reality is that I simply can't reach."

"Dude, I'm not gonna-"

"After being thrown into the ocean, I have great faith in your lifting abilities."

"I can't believe this – you _actually-_"

"Dean!" Castiel interrupts angrily. "We don't have time for this. Now – please!"

Dean bends at the knee and braces his back against the bookcase, wincing at the dig of shelves into his spine. "Alright, alright – go!"

Castiel hops up – balances – and there is the warm weight of his legs pressed against Dean's shoulder, his shirt riding up as he stretches, the pale, sharp jut of his hipbone when he twists – and then he jumps down and away. A ring of keys jangles in his head.

"Did you get it?" Dean blurts out dumbly. It's the third thing that comes into his head as he straightens up. The second is that he needs to say something, anything, immediately. The very first thing is wanting to brush his thumb along that line of Castiel's hips, the soft give of his waist - which is totally weird and not cool at all.

"Yes."

Castiel is picking the ring apart so that the one key they need can come free. Then he opens Zachariah's door, looks once down the corridor, and slides the key under Alistair's locked door to where Jo is crouched in the shadows.

They haven't heard anything from Victor yet; the coast is still clear.

Castiel stands stock-still in the hallway, waiting as Jo does her thing and occasionally pointing and gesticulating wildly as help her in the right direction. Then the key is gliding back under the door and Jo is just a shape wriggling back out the tiny window, little plastic bag in hand.

Two things happen next.

As Castiel comes hurrying back and Dean hoists him once more up to the shelf, he thinks that Castiel could have very easily used the desk chair for this.

And then Dean's cell phone buzzes.

They both freeze. A moment later, Castiel's phone goes off, vibrating wildly under Castiel's clothes and against Dean's shoulder, which is ten levels of weird. Castiel is leaping down and fishing his cell out of his pocket at the same time as Dean is flipping his own open and reading the dreaded words: _GET OUT!_

"Shit," Dean hisses.

"Oh gosh," Castiel whispers ten seconds behind. He darts for the door but has barely pulled it open a crack before it starts to scream in loud complaint, and voices are all already picking up down the hallway.

Dearest Uncle Zachariah himself – plus Alistair.

All the colour has drained from Castiel's face. He lets the door go.

For what seems like an eternity, Dean and Castiel merely stare at each other from opposite sides of the office, wide-eyed in horror. Then:

"Quick, we gotta hide!"

"No, Dean, they'll find us-"

"Anywhere, it doesn't matter-"

"I should just confess-"

"_Don't you dare!"_

"Dean, there's nowhere to go!"

"Just – just shut up for a second!"

"_Dean-_"

Suddenly Dean reaches out, covers Castiel's mouth with one hand, and drags him roughly into a small wardrobe, inside which hang a raincoat and two silk scarves. They press tight against the back panel of the wardrobe, scrabble for the doors –

-and just as one door clicks shut, the other clicks open.

Castiel and Dean stop breathing.

The lights turn on.

"-don't know, I just don't like the look of those other kids."

"Too right. Lazy, back-chatting, good-for-nothing..."

"And he's been neglecting his prayers since he met them, which I appreciate may not mean much to you, Al, but Castiel has been always suffered from being... _flighty._"

Castiel's breath hitches under Dean's hand when he realises who Alistair and Zachariah are discussing. His eyes, previously glued to the seam of the wardrobe door in fearful apprehension, now flicker fast to Dean's.

"No, no, I know what you mean. Of course I, of all people, understand how crucial discipline is."

Illuminated by the thin strips of light that filter through the slats in the door, Castiel's eyes are incomprehensible and endless. Dean's breath catches in his throat; he blames it on the presence of the two scariest bastards on the campus lurking just on the other side of a very thin piece of wood.

Dean lowers his hand from Castiel's mouth, but he's already acutely aware of their every inch pressed close together from chest to toe. This tiny, claustrophobic wardrobe doesn't allow for personal space.

The tip of Castiel's nose grazes Dean's chin. Dean presses his lips tightly together, not daring to breathe. The tight thrum of blood through his body seems thunderous and deafening.

Castiel's breath is a warm rush over his face. There is an angry white-static buzz in Dean's fingertips like he's been sitting on them for hours. He swallows hard, dry-mouthed. Castiel's eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Where did you say your jacket was?"

Shit.

"Not sure... I might have left it in the-"

shit shit shit

Footsteps in their direction; heavy, lumbering. Zachariah.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed and instinctively grabs Castiel's hand.

"Hang on, is that it?"

A pause.

"Huh? Oh, right – yeah! Thanks."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Nope, that's it."

Dean's eyes flash open. Castiel is staring back, solemn and silent. They breathe as one, chests moving shallowly. Dean can feel Castiel's heart stutter through his shirt; Dean can feel his warmth. Their hands are still curled together, tight and crooked and sweaty.

There is the click of a light-switch, the agonising rusty scream of the door's hinges, and then voices dwindle into the distance.

Dean lets out an enormous sigh of relief. A grin breaks out across his face. "Jesus Christ," he whispers gleefully and lets go of Castiel's hand. Neither of them mention a thing.

They push out into office, limbs cramped and juddery. and move in baby-steps. Slipping through doors in the smallest gaps that their adolescent frames will allow, and peering cautiously around every corner, they creep all the way to the lobby before they stop and look at each other. They are pink and dishevelled. They are on their way back to the designated meeting spot, having successfully broken into the administrative offices of Camp Chiquita and hoisted an ounce of marijuana. They are free.

Running as fast as they can to get over the rocks at the end of Chiquita property after dark doesn't seem quite so daunting now.

On the beach, through the woods and down the path, the only lights are a glossy half-moon, the hostile fluorescence outside the vacated kiddie cabins nearby, and the distant green glimmer of buoys in the bay. The rocks are black, cold. Jo and Victor are waiting.

"What the hell happened?" Jo demands as soon as Dean and Castiel are sliding down the rocks to meet them on the far side. "I got Victor's text when I was on my way down here but you guys must have still been in there!"

"Man, I'm so sorry!" Victor sits up, cringing. "I tried to distract them but they wouldn't listen to a damn thing I had to say... and then I just had to bail!"

"It's okay, don't worry!" Dean is still vibrating with nervous energy; he can't sit down. "They came in and everything – we just had to jump in wardrobe to hide and wait for them to leave!" He handily skips over the part where in a fit of panic he grabbed Castiel's hands like a little girl.

"Zachariah wanted his jacket and he nearly looked in the wardrobe for it too!" Castiel adds breathlessly.

Jo rocks back, tucking her bare feet close up to her. "Holy crap."

"That isn't even the best bit," Dean chuckles, kicking his sneakers off and bouncing on the balls of his feet. "The best bit is that while we were in there Dracula and the Jolly Asshole were actually talking about us!"

"About how you're all such a bad influence on my poor, innocent soul," Castiel says drily in response to Jo's slack-jawed expression.

Victor laughs. "Yeah – poor Cas, who was at that very moment leading a mission to steal an illegal Class C drug from his office!"

"What can I say?" Castiel says coolly, giving a lopsided shrug. "I'm misunderstood."

When Dean proceeds to call Castiel out on needing 'help for the vertically challenged', Jo, who is two inches shorter than Castiel's five-six, tartly retorts that some people haven't had their growth spurt yet and asks if instead they can get on with it.

Dean drops down beside Victor, buries his bare feet deep into the cold sand, and watches idly, relaxed, as Jo attempts to teach Castiel how to roll a joint. She rolls the paper in quick, deft movements, only slowing down the practiced tuck and fold marginally so that Castiel can see.

They fall into an almost reverent hush as Jo lights up. Castiel's mouth is slightly open, entranced.

"There we go!" Jo says triumphantly.

Her zippo light dances once more, lone and bright, before she snaps it shut. Dean and Victor humour her with applause and cheering, while Castiel eyes the joint with a measure of uncertainty.

"Relax," Jo teases, inhaling deeply, holding it for a few seconds and then blowing the smoke at him in thin, luminescent tendrils. "It's just smoke. It never hurt anyone."

"Actually, prolonged marijuana use can cause psychosis in later life," Castiel says as Victor reaches over to take the joint from her.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Wow. Nice way to be a buzzkill, Cas."

Victor laughs a little, smoke curling up from between his teeth. Dean takes a drag and makes a poor attempt to blow rings, before offering it over. Castiel takes it carefully, his thumb brushing the length of Dean's index finger, and just... holds it. He has the same determined look of a man about to take up bear-fighting – knowing that the experience will be fun, life-changing, but will possibly also result in traumatising flashbacks in forty years' time. His eyes flash to Dean's and then back to the joint. He seems to be steeling himself. The joint trembles in his hand.

"Okay, sweetie, hand it over," Jo says decisively as she stretches across to pluck it from his fingers. "Come here- we're gonna shotgun."

Castiel leans forward onto his hands and knees and crawls obediently closer. Jo shuffles until she's sitting comfortably cross-legged, and shakes her hair back out of her face.

"Right," she tells him firmly, pointing into his face with the end of the joint to emphasise every word. "I'm gonna take a hit, okay? And I'm gonna keep the smoke in my lungs. Then we're gonna make a seal with our mouths and I'm just gonna breathe it into _your _lungs. Got it?"

Castiel's gaze flickers warily to Jo's mouth and then down to the butt of the joint, smouldering starkly. He hesitates. "Is this... supposed to be sexual?"

Dean tips his head right back and laughs. Jo just shakes her head like she can't even believe what she's hearing. "Wow. Are you really that repulsed by lady-parts? You know what – never mind." She leans forward, face perfectly serious. "Don't worry. All I'm going to do is blow smoke in your mouth. I'm not going to touch you in the bad place... just think of it like CPR. But with a little less emergency response procedure and a little more drugs. Alright? Not sexual."

Adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat, Castiel nods.

Jo takes a drag, holds still for a couple of seconds, chest and throat drawn tight, and then covers Castiel's mouth with hers. There is a brief moment when it feels like something is coiling tight and pissed-off in Dean's stomach watching where their lips meet, but then he looks more closely at the awkward scrunch of Castiel's nose and the way that they both keep their eyes open and focused on each other. Castiel's chest inflates infinitesimally; his eyes widen a little in surprise.

Then they break apart, smoke spiralling up faintly from their mouths, and Jo claps a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Alright, sweetie?" He nods earnestly. "Now try it yourself."

Dean, Jo and Victor fall then into stupid lazy laughter as Castiel pinches the joint tight between two fingers and tries to take a drag, amid their chaotic shouts of instruction and encouragement. Castiel coughs, splutters; tries again. He's getting the hang of it.

They smoke slow and easy, bodies stretched out loose. Waves roll and whisper just beyond their little circle; the moon casts them all soft and pale. Dim, disembodied voices float out from the various small bars that line the seafront, and they relax in a peaceful silence. They lie back or prop themselves up on their elbows, toes curling into the sand; Castiel sits neat, legs pretzelled beneath him.

He tips his head far back to look up at the sky and at the clouds that shift and spiral in great pregnant coils, his breath twisting up before him in thin, pale mist as the night grows colder.

Dean watches, enthralled, as Castiel's eyes flutter closed in quiet euphoria.

Lips parting slightly, Castiel whispers, "Do you ever just... feel like – you know-"

"Yeah," Dean says gently.

Castiel lowers his head in a fluid glide, opens his eyes wide, and his features drift into a beatific smile. "Yeah," he echoes contentedly.

Jo gives a low chuckle. "Oh, sweetie," she mumbles. "You are _so _stoned."

Castiel's brow crinkles and to Dean those lines look like old map-creases and he could learn every inch. Castiel roughly licks his lips, a mechanical gesture. His head tilts back, like his neck can barely support him anymore, and his eyes screw up a little when he asks slowly, "Am I stoned?"

"Oh yeah." Victor lets himself drop lightly down into the sand, and in the lifetime it takes for him to fall and hit and sink, a space seems to appear in the sand that looks like it was _made _for Victor – like they had always belonged together. Dean dumbly wonders if Castiel is his patch in the sand, or the other way around, or something.

"What?"

Dean realises that he said that aloud. He doesn't really remember the sentiment behind it though, so that's okay. Really... everything is okay. "I don't know, man," he says softly, blinking heavy.

Jo giggles and makes some comment, but Dean isn't really listening. Whatever it is, Victor seems to agree, pulling smoothly on the leftover stub of the joint, and passes it over to Castiel. The dim glow of the butt casts him faintly in orange; he looks soft and warm. Castiel lifts it to his lips and inhales. He learns fast, apparently – although he still chokes a little as the smoke comes back up.

"Dean," he is suddenly saying, blue eyes centring on Dean's face where he is sprawled out on the other side of the circle, leaning on one elbow – and then he is moving much closer, in aborted stumbles on his knees, too lazy to stand up properly. His stupid, awkward movements topple him over sideways, nearly sending the joint flying into the distance, and he finds himself pressed tight against Dean, laughing in short, giddy huffs like he can barely breathe. "Dean – Dean-"

"What?" Dean laughs as well, because there's something ridiculously contagious about that idiotic grin scrawled all over Castiel's normally-dour face. "Cas-"

Castiel puts a hand on Dean's shoulder to push himself upright, practically giggling to himself as he tries to get himself steady and stable. "Dean," he starts again, using the support that he has now gained from leaning on Dean to lift the joint briefly back to his lips. "I want to try that thing – that – what's-it-called-"

"Oh, what – shotgunning?" Something is blossoming warmly in Dean's stomach at the thought of it, like one of those nature documentaries which show seasons changing really really fast with all the trees growing, or like the white lilies which Mary likes to have in her kitchen which always seem to live forever. Dean wonders if Castiel will taste like that – like white lilies. No. That's a girly taste. Castiel would taste different. Dean's hand curls impetuously into the itchy material of Castiel's ugly grey sweater. "Sure."

"Don't worry," Castiel teases softly, smoky, leaning in. "This isn't sexual."

Dean nods slowly, once. "I get that." He swallows, twice. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Castiel, he decides as he watches him lift the joint to his lips, would definitely taste different. Not the saccharine slick of cherry lip-gloss like middle-school girls back home playing Truth Or Dare, the taste of nervous desperation. More like smoke and salt and cheeseburgers and honesty and bad jokes. More like familiarity, a little like family, and a lot like forever, maybe.

When he finally leans in to fit their lips together, Castiel tastes like all of the above and more.

His mouth is warm and dry; there is the rasp of baby stubble against Dean's chin when Castiel's tilts his head up. They hold perfectly still, pulses thunderous under their skin where they touch, and then they breathe. Smoke whirls sweet and tangy, but the lift seems dull and colourless against the careful pressure of Castiel's mouth.

At some point, they both close their eyes. They've never done that before. And then, when Dean breathes shallowly, smoke coming up - and when Castiel pulls back, making a low noise in the back of his throat – they don't part easily. There's the delicate, surprise push of Castiel's tongue, sweeping over Dean's teeth like he could claim every part of him and he's only getting started; there's the way he misjudges distance, closes his mouth before he has pulled away, capturing Dean's completely; there's the way he accidentally snags Dean's lower lip.

Then it's over.

Smoke drifts up palely between them, curling and spinning loosely as it disappears into the dark expanse of night. Castiel peers curiously at Dean through the shadows and fog that it leaves, and when he finds his eyes, the smile that he gives is dizzy and radiant.

Dean's hand is still twisted into Castiel's sweater; he laughs a little and pushes him off so that he falls into the sand. In the background, Jo and Victor are giggling at some unheard joke, but that's not important. Things like the blue of Castiel's eyes and the way his mouth feels without trying and the dumb shit-eating grin, he thinks – that's important.


	8. The One They Feel The Love Too Much

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Eight**

**even later that evening**

**or morning, technically**

They joke that they'll be crawling back to their beds - like stoned snails or slugs or legless beetles or something, Jo cackles - when the sun comes up, and it's not too far from the truth. Victor's watch says something like two am but they can't be too sure, eyes blurred with tiredness and the fading high.

Jo gets as far as the lifeguard huts before complaining that she's exhausted, and is literally about to lie down on the sand for the night, so Dean hoists her up and piggybacks her back down the long dark path to the building block; Castiel and Victor link arms for mutual support. All of them are aware of how much shit they'll be in if they're caught and they know that being quiet is of the utmost importance; this knowledge means that everything anyone says is a million times funnier, and it's a million times more difficult to keep quiet. Worse still, Castiel has hiccups.

As they come out of the woods and pass the bicycle, Castiel's foot is caught in a rut in the path and he trips. Dean gets the giggles and Jo has to clap a hand over his mouth to shut him up, which only makes him laugh harder. Victor tries to help him up but Castiel just sits on the pavement cackling to himself between hiccups.

"Come on, Cas, get up," Victor urges through a snort of laughter. "We've gotta get back... gotta get back to the block."

"Gotta get back, gotta gotta get back," Jo chants stupidly above Dean, which he guesses is the lyrics of some song he doesn't know – although it's hard to tell, because Jo is a pretty bad singer. Dean tries to tell her to be quiet but she's still got a hand clamped over his mouth and it comes out as an unintelligible mumble.

"You guys!" Victor exclaims, shoving at Jo – and at Dean – so that they stumble together and Jo falls. She shrieks and grabs a handful of Dean's shirt to hold herself up, almost dragging him down with her.

Castiel climbs to his feet, giggling maniacally – Dean grabs a handful of his sweater to try and hold him steady – Jo wraps a hand around the arm stretched between them and makes some dumb joke that they all laugh too hard at – and then:

"What the hell is going on here?"

They look up to see someone a few yards down the path, standing broad and heavy, fury frozen on his features. Zachariah.

"Oh shit, it's the Teletubby," Jo blurts out.

Victor hisses at Jo to shut up, but a dark look is already clouding Zachariah's eyes like he would wipe them all off the face of the planet if he could. The situation's pretty bad, Dean will admit, but even in his drug-addled, blurry state, he's fairly confident that he can resolve this problem with minimum damage to reputation. He saunters a few steps towards Zachariah, holding his hands up in an attempt to pacify him. "Relax, Dipsy," he tells him pleasantly. "We're just on our way back to the block – not causing any trouble, man." He chuckles, shaking his head. "No way... no way. Just feeling the love right here. We're all in love here – no problems."

Somewhere behind him, Dean hears a hiccup and Castiel's high-pitched giggle. Zachariah's eyes flash over and narrow menacingly. His silence seems to last a lifetime, and when he does speak, his voice is low and disbelieving, with more than a hint of a threat. "Castiel... are you stoned?"

Dean turns to look at Castiel, who sways a little where he stands. "They blew smoke into my mouth... but they didn't touch me in the bad place," he recites with slow uncertainty, like he isn't sure that he's saying the right thing.

It's such a stupid thing to say that Dean almost wants to laugh, but there is a tension strung between Castiel and Zachariah so tight that it feels like the air is thrumming with it. Dean gulps, starting to regret having put himself in the middle of this. Jo and Victor have fallen totally silent. Castiel hiccups.

"I hope you realise that you're spiralling out of control, Castiel. You think this is all in the name of fun but I can tell you now with complete certainty that you are travelling a one-way track to sin..." Zachariah pauses, fixing cruel, beady eyes on Castiel. "If you're not already there, that is."

Castiel drags in a breath that seems almost painful; his mouth opens slightly, but he can't find anything to say. "I – but I-"

"You know, your brothers had doubts about letting you come here. They said that it would be dangerous to let someone so naive and impressionable be surrounded by people your own age," Zachariah starts.

"It would be dangerous for me to have any friends," Castiel cuts in, his voice wobbling with the fear of his own newfound defiance. He takes a few nervous steps forwards until he is level with Dean. The backs of their hands brush warmly, comfortingly. "Dangerous for me to learn to think for myself."

"Dangerous," Zachariah interrupts loudly, "for you to spend the majority of your time away from my watchful eye and instead around corrupt, selfish, careless atheists – but I assured Michael that I would be able to keep you under control and I intend to keep that promise."

"But, Zachariah-"

"You don't even see it, do you?" Zachariah demands. "You're losing all sight of your true purpose – neglecting your prayers, neglecting your studies, neglecting your _family_, the only ones who have ever really cared for you – and for what?" Zachariah's breath fans hot, sticky and repugnant over them. His eyes flash with a barely-concealed vehemence. He steps closer, raises one short, stumpy finger and jabs it at Castiel's face. "For _what_, Castiel? For what – for _this_?" His hand flies out to gesture incredulously at Dean, and behind, Jo and Victor.

"But I like it, Uncle Zachariah!" Castiel bursts out. "All of it. I like their company - I like their jokes – I like the freedom, the honesty, the feeling like I actually _matter_! And I – I-" Castiel starts to stutter, at a loss for words, and then he hiccups again, which only seems to make him more agitated. His hands lift from his sides in tight little fists and then snap back down in frustration. "I like the taste of sugar!"

"Alright, Castiel," Zachariah snaps. "Let me ask you just one question... do you think this is righteous?"

Castiel's face screws up like he's trying not to cry. He stands silent for a moment, trembling. "I think that being happy is righteous," he says shakily. "And... and all I know is that before a few weeks ago, I didn't even know what that felt like."

Zachariah exhales slowly, shaking his head. "I'm trying to be gentle with you, Castiel, because I know that you have always had a hard time understanding this, but there is a crucial difference between _happiness _and _sin,_" he spits out. "Happiness can be found in the arms of our Lord – sin, on the other hand, is found in the arms of these heretic, corruptive cockroaches-"

"Well, then maybe I don't care about sin!" Castiel retorts angrily – and then, a split-second later, his eyes fly impossibly wide with fear as he seems to realise that he has said the wrong thing. He tries to shrink away, but Zachariah fists a hand into his sweater and jerks him forwards so roughly that his head flops like a ragdoll and he cries out.

Dean barely knows what's happening – he can barely even see straight – but he knows that suddenly there is a white-hot churning in his stomach like he could rip through a brick wall and he's charging right up into Zachariah's face, hands lifted, and he shoves Zachariah as hard as he can. "Leave him alone, jackass!"

Zachariah stumbles back a step, blinking hard with disbelief, and while Castiel grabs Dean's arm, clamouring desperately for him to just keep out of it, Zachariah's swings his head back around to face them, his flabby jaw tightening angry.

"You stay out of this," Zachariah says slowly. There is something infinitely more unsettling about Zachariah's unnaturally calm and even speech than any of his previous outbursts, like the lull before a rattlesnake strikes.

Seeming to sense that shit is about to seriously hit the fan, Jo and Victor are suddenly at Dean's side, grabbing him by the elbows and dragging him backwards, scowling and stumbling, out of harm's way. "Just leave it," Jo hisses at him. "It's none of our business."

"What, it's none of my business to stand up to controlling, manipulative assholes?" Dean demands, glaring.

"Dean Winchester, I will say this once and only once," Zachariah says, once again in that terrifyingly soft, poisonous tone, "and I suggest you bear this in mind: the way I raise _my _son is no concern of yours."

Castiel lifts his head, his jaw clenched tight, and in a very quiet voice so full of rage that he's almost shaking with it, he says, "You're not my father."

When Zachariah back-hands Castiel, it almost takes him to the floor.

Dean lunges forwards, Castiel's name rising as a roar in his throat, but he is jerked back by Jo and Victor's grasp on his arms, and all that comes out of his mouth is a low, building snarl like he could tear someone limb from limb – and hell, maybe he could, judging on the way his lip lifts from his teeth, his anger almost animal – the way that his vision is crowding in on him in hot, red pulses that hone in on Zachariah –

Having been knocked over to one side and nearly to his knees with the force of Zachariah's slap, Castiel straightens up slowly, his gaze lowered towards the floor. He does not speak.

As his back turned to the others, they can see nothing but the twitch and heave of his shoulders as he tries not to cry, and they remember now for the first times that despite all their bluff and bravado and jokes, they're just kids. They're sixteen years old and powerless. They are nothing.

Zachariah leans close to Castiel's face, grasping his chin tightly in one hand and forcing it back to look up at him. "You listen carefully," he says coldly. "You might want to have a little more respect, you ungrateful little _shit. _Yes, all the good your precious father did you – he wasn't fit to be a father - wasn't fit to be a priest. Who do you really think is more important: my brother, the low-life, good-for-nothing, blasphemous toad who couldn't even stay alive for his family or for his religion after _you _killed your whore mother – or me, trying to steer you on your way to your real father, in Heaven, who you're betraying with your every action?"

Castiel doesn't answer. He doesn't move. He just stands still, shaking, and accepts it.

"Remember, Castiel," Zachariah says gently, letting go of Castiel's face and caressing his head in a gesture that would almost seem loving if the very touch didn't make Dean's stomach roll with revulsion. Zachariah smiles, but the baring of teeth only likens him to a shark. "I'm only trying to do what's best for you. You want to go to Heaven, don't you?"

He doesn't answer.

"Castiel?"

He nods, shortly, once.

"There we go." Zachariah stands up straight, dusting his hands briefly on his pants like he'd somehow got himself dirty while beating his nephew. He turns a sharp eye on Dean, Jo and Victor where they stand, several yards back, frozen in horror. "Now I won't say a thing to you three because I have great faith in you. I believe you'll go immediately back to your rooms, go to bed, and none of this ever has to be mentioned. You won't be kicked out of the camp for drugs abuse, and we can all continue with our lives." The way he says it, his voice hard and flinty despite his smile, makes it all too clear that this is not a request. "Good. Now come along, Castiel."

Finally, Castiel moves. He turns slowly to look back at Dean – his eyes red-rimmed and watery, the skin of his cheek already standing bright and raw. For Dean, the sight is like a rock-solid punch to the stomach, and all the air rushes out of him. Dean's face crumples, every inch of his body screaming with how badly he wants to just run over and grab him, smush him tight in that way that he pretends he hates, let him press his face into the crook in Dean's neck until he feels safe again – but there's nothing he can do. They're only kids.

"Bye," Castiel says quietly. His eyes drop from Dean's, and there's a split-second where Dean can see his face screw up, his jaw quiver, and then without another word, he turns and follows Zachariah into the darkness.

**Week 5, Day +44**

They next see Castiel at breakfast, Monday morning. He's sitting on the far edge of the cafeteria, well away from their usual seat by the bay window. Jo notices first.

"Hey – look!" She balances her tray carefully and points across the room.

Dean follows her arm and glances over into the distant corner. Normally, if Castiel didn't want to sit with them one day, he'd leave him alone - Dean knows that sometimes he falls into casual despondency which doesn't lift for hours and that when it happens, it's best just to let him deal with it by himself. However, today Dean's not standing for it.

This is the first time they've seen Castiel since that shitty two a.m run-in with Zachariah.

Even when they had been sent running back to the block, with Castiel trailing away sadly behind the Jolly Asshole, they'd waited up for him. Come seven in the morning, when they were meant to start getting ready for the day ahead, he still hadn't come back. Victor had fretted non-stop like a mother hen; Jo and Dean had got into an enormous argument mostly revolving around _if he wasn't even allowed sugar, why the fuck did we give him weed?_ Castiel hadn't even turned up to receive his new allocation for the kids he's looking after this fortnight.

Dean exhales roughly, staring over into the far corner where Castiel is stirring his food distractedly around and around his plate.

The worst part is that he isn't even sitting by himself. He's sitting with Meg Masters.

"Should we go talk to him?" Jo asks hesitantly, chewing her bottom lip. "I feel like we should but..."

"He's making a serious effort not to be anywhere near us," Victor finishes her sentence with a grimace and sets his tray down on their usual table. "He's as far away as he can be, short of leaving the caf altogether."

"Maybe we should just-"

"I'm going," Dean announces decisively. "I'll see you later."

Without further ado, he steps past Victor and weaves through the cluttered crowd of chairs and tables to reach Castiel and Meg. As he approaches, Castiel shows no awareness of Dean's presence, but he must know: the pace at which he spins his food picks up infinitesimally.

"-but then she totally got messed up by it – maybe she's allergic to lemons or something? I don't know, but tequila just did not agree with her _at all_," Meg is saying conversationally, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. Her plate is completely empty, and it looks like it has been for quite some time. She's just... sitting there. Chatting up Castiel.

"Hey," Dean says loudly, standing beside their table.

Meg looks up, one eyebrow quirking. "Hey, Winchester," she says coolly. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to talk to Cas."

Meg shoots him a saccharine smile and waves her hand in the air in Castiel's direction. "Be my guest."

Dean's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer - just stares her down. His eyes are a hard glint. He sets his tray down firmly next to where Meg's empty tray sits on the table.

She rolls her eyes with a heavy, melodramatic sigh. "Suit yourself." She pushes a dark curl back from her face and leans over the table towards Castiel. "You've got my number, haven't you, Clarence? Call me," she says sweetly, her eyes flickering over him appreciatively, "if you need anything."

Seeing that Castiel is not going to answer, she gives a low _hmph_ and picks up her tray, but ruffles a hand through his untidy hair with determined affection before sweeping out of the cafeteria. Dean dumps his tray in her place and sits down heavily.

"Jesus Christ," he jokes. "What the fuck, man? Clarence? Does she even know you're gay?"

Castiel doesn't answer. His long fingers twitch on the handle of his fork. His spinning of the food around his plate slows and then eventually stops. Dean can see the shift of muscle in his throat as he swallows hard. Castiel starts pushing his food backwards and forwards instead.

Dean sighs, looking down at his own crappy breakfast burrito. He isn't hungry either anymore. "Cas, what are you doing all the way over here?"

"I assumed that would be obvious," Castiel replies at last, his voice so low and rough that he's barely audible, and then he lifts his head to look Dean in the eye – and, _shit_, there's the faint red swell on the ridge of his eye-socket where bruising will come up, his eye puffing closed. He gives a rueful smile.

"Christ," Dean swears, and his hands curl into helpless fists where they rest on the table. "Cas – you can't let him treat you like this!"

Castiel's gaze drops back to his food with an awkward shrug. "It's how he's always treated all of us. My brothers are good men because of it," he says, but his words are stilted and rehearsed. "We were raised on the understanding that obedience is of the utmost importance and yesterday I defied that. All along, behind Zachariah's back, I have been defying that."

For a moment, Dean is so shocked that he can do nothing but stare at Castiel, mouth slightly open and eyes wide with outrage. "Jesus," he splutters eventually, so loud that people on the next table look around, but they can go screw themselves. "Cas, are you actually listening to yourself? You sound like a fucking Stormtrooper!"

Shoulders tensing up, Castiel exhales, sharp and rough. "I'm not supposed to talk to you, Dean."

"Fuck that," Dean tells him firmly. "Cas – Cas, look at me." He balances his elbows on the tabletop and leans over, staring intently at Castiel's downcast face until he is forced to look up at meet his gaze. "Cas. We threw you in the freaking Gulf of Mexico, dude. After that, it's kind of a forever deal, remember?"

Castiel's eyes are ten kinds of shattered and hopeless, their blue pale and wasting in the harsh fluorescent light of the cafeteria. He can only hold Dean's gaze for a split-second before his face screws up unhappily, and he looks away, his eyes flicking heavenwards as though he thinks he might find some help there. He doesn't.

"Dean," he says on a breath like he's wounded, and his eyes fall back to Dean's, pained. "What am I supposed to do?"

"To be honest... I don't know," Dean admits. He lifts a hand to point accusatorily at Castiel. "I'll tell you what you're sure as hell _not _gonna do though – you're not gonna just... sit here and _take _it!"

"But he's my family."

"Family?" Dean echoes sceptically. "No. I'm sorry, Cas, but that is not what family is. Family's..." He hesitates, frowning as he tries to define for himself what exactly family is or isn't. "I don't know, I guess family's where you feel happy and safe and... yeah, you might have arguments about stupid things but... but _family _doesn't fucking back-hand you for wanting to be yourself!"

Castiel's gaze slides down to his plate; he dejectedly pokes the tines of his fork through his now-cold burrito. "I've never known family like that."

Well, fuck. Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Dean's never been good at talking. Jesus Christ, he wasn't prepared for any of this shitty drama – he came to Camp Chiquita to have a good time and mess around with Jo and Victor and raise the funds to seduce the panties off Lisa Braeden. He didn't sign up for babysitting emotionally traumatised nerds, but he guesses this is what he's in with now, and when he looks across the table at the miserable crease between Castiel's eyebrows and the downwards pull of his mouth like if he just shut ups and keeps to himself then everything else will go away, Dean knows clear as anything that walking away just isn't an option.

"Cas," Dean tries softly, but he's never been good at talking. He just reaches across the time and folds his hand over Castiel's, carefully, a little awkwardly.

Tensing underneath, Castiel's eyes flash up to meet Dean's, wide with surprise and uncertainty and something that looks like hope. There's the warm rub of his knuckles against Dean's palm; the shift of his fingers that brush almost imperceptibly over the thin skin inside of his wrist like static. Dean's hands are sweaty; Castiel's are cold.

"It's gonna be okay," Dean says at last, his mouth dry and cottony. He doesn't break eye contact; they're all that's holding each other up. "I promise."


	9. The One Where Zachariah Gets Told

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Nine**

**Week 5, Day +43**

The apartment door down the hall swings open so fast that for a second it seems like it's going to come off the hinges, and jerks Castiel's arms seemingly out of their sockets as he fills the space in the doorway. He's flushed pink and breathless, like he ran to answer and maybe fell over on the way as well. "Hi," he says, trying to compose himself. He straightens up, catching his breath, and seems to slip back into uncertainty. "Dean. What do you need?"

"Uh, well, I don't really _need _anything..." The space between them stretches tight and uncomfortable, like somehow they've crossed a line without realising it. Dean scratches at the back of his head, ruffling up his short hair. "It's just that we were thinking of ordering in a pizza tonight so, uh, do you like pineapple?"

Castiel stares at him. His shoulders are pulled tight, distant and indecisive. His mouth makes miniscule aborted movements, fighting words, and then finally, he comments off-handedly, "Jo told me once that excessive consumption of pineapple could influence the flavour of one's semen."

"_What?_" Dean recoils with mingled horror and bewilderment. "Dude – what the hell's wrong with you? I'm not trying to take you to some jizz-tasting research facility – I'm just trying to find out what topping you want on your freaking pizza!"

As the words leave Dean's mouth, he realises what the problem is. He realises why Castiel is skipping around the real question. Dean has immediately assumed that these were the old days; that the idea of him not attending a miniature pizza party in the room next door is totally inconceivable. Things are different now.

"Unless you're... busy or something," Dean amends awkwardly, shifting his weight from one side to the other.

One side of Castiel's face scrunches up. His eyes fall to the grubby corridor floor and he worries his lower lip between his teeth. "Zachariah wants me to finish Revelations."

"Oh." Dean gives a short nod. He gestures ambiguously with his hand through the doorway in the direction of Castiel's little bookcase. "Yeah, of course. Totally. Well, at least that sounds like more fun than War And Peace, right?"

Slowly but surely, Castiel tilts his chin up to look Dean in the face, eyes crinkling at the corners, and for a second Dean is positive he's going to get ass-reamed for insulting Tolstoy. Then the edge of his mouth quirks up, dimple creasing. He takes a step backwards into his apartment, bumping against the door. "I'll get my sweater."

**Week 5, Day +42**

"When is it actually going to start?"

"Shut up, man, you're missing it!"

Castiel falls silent and obediently concentrates on the musical feast singing from Dean's headphones. Unable to hear what's going on, Dean can only watch the seconds tick by on his ipod screen and trust that Castiel is in good hands. Since that karaoke night all those weeks ago when Castiel announced that he knows nothing of good music, Dean has been slowly trying to indoctrinate him, without much success. He still likes AC/DC but nothing else will stick.

It's their lunch-time – that one precious half-hour break between bouts of wrestling with the various behavioural problems of spoilt little brats – and they've flopped down onto a patch of dry scrub grass in the shade of a slightly lopsided alder tree. Victor is deeply engrossed in a bag of chips and Jo, as per usual, is just trying to sleep.

"Dean, is it ever going to-"

"_Just listen_!"

"Uh, Dean," Jo says, jabbing him in the side with the arm of her sunglasses. "Hate to say it, but I don't think tone-deaf people appreciate long, complicated guitar-solos."

"Everyone appreciates long, complicated guitar-solos!" Dean shoots back stubbornly.

Jo jabs him again. "It's probably just noise to him!"

Dean's mouth falls open, furious that anyone could refer to Led Zeppelin as _noise_ in any context. "Noise," he repeats in horror. "_Noise_? Noi- and _quit freaking poking me_!" He snatches Jo's sunglasses out of her hand and slides them onto his face. They're too small for his face and he's probably bending them, but that's Jo's own fault for being a persistent little bitch. However, he reluctantly relents that she might be right. "Is it just noise?" he asks Castiel, scowling a little, as though daring him not to be able to hear music.

Castiel pulls his feet under him to sit cross-legged and frowns contemplatively. "Not... noise," he says hesitantly. "It just sounds... convoluted."

A small part of Dean's soul curls up into a tiny ball and dies. He flattens a hand melodramatically over his heart and winces. "Wow. Ouch."

"Give up, man," Victor laughs, flicking crumbs at him. "He's hopeless."

Dean sighs, imitating a sob, and leans back against the tree trunk behind him. "Here." He clicks his ipod onto shuffle and tosses it over to Castiel, who fumbles to catch it. "Knock yourself out. See if you can find anything you can actually hear."

For a few minutes they're silent, except for the dull click and whirl of Castiel scrolling through music. Dean tilts his face up to the sun, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of it even through Jo's sunglasses, and wishes he'd thought to bring more sunscreen out with him today. The day is stale, unmoving, and so hot that it feels like a physical burden. Dean hasn't seen any birds in days; they've probably all relocated to Alaska or at least somewhere there's air-conditioning. Cicadas drone in the trees, lurking always out of sight while the hum of their wings fills the air.

"I like this," Castiel interrupts, glancing over at Dean. His eyes crinkle against the sunlight, emphasising the angry stripe of sunburn over his cheeks. He nods his head awkwardly in time to the music as he passes the ipod over-"

"Kesha?" Dean reads incredulously. "Are you – are you screwing with me? _Kesha_?"

"Why do you even have Kesha on there?" Jo cackles.

Dean glowers at her. "I don't know – blame Sammy! Okay, look, just – _stop laughing, Jo_! The real problem right now is that we now have a freaking Kesha fan on our hands!"

"I like the simple repetition," Castiel continues thoughtfully, still half-concentrating on the shitty music coming from Dean's headphones. "The melody is easy to understa-"

"That's because she's just talking! That's not music!"

Jo, who has pressed her ear alongside Castiel's so that she can get a tinny impression of what he's listening to, is suddenly bursting out, "_TIK TOK ON DA CLOCK-_" – with Castiel tunelessly trying to imitate her. Dean yells at them and lunges forwards to confiscate the ipod; Victor just rocks back laughing to himself as they squabble.

"Castiel."

The four of them fall silent, gazing up worriedly at the figure of Zachariah suddenly looming above them. He gives them all a disturbingly benevolent smile but his eyes zero in on Castiel as a challenge.

"Hello, uncle." Castiel rips the headphones from his ears and folds the cables hurriedly away. "I – is everything – I'm not-"

"Tell me, Castiel," Zachariah starts gently. "Do our little conversations just go in one ear and straight the other – or are you deliberately defiant?"

Castiel swallows hard, eyes wide. "No," he says uncertainly, face scrunching up. "I wasn't – I just-" Blood is flushing up his neck. He's starting to stutter. He gulps again, glancing rapidly around at Dean, Jo and Victor as though for help. "Uncle, I'm sorry-"

"We've repented," Dean announces loudly before Castiel can obediently bumble through an apology and do something dumb like throw himself in front of a bus in his eagerness to show remorse. "After you spoke to us, we, uh... saw the light."

Zachariah snaps around to look at Dean, eyes narrowing to spiteful slits. "What?"

Jo, Victor and Castiel are throwing Dean some very similar looks – a mixture of _what the fuck _and _shut your fat mouth right now_ – but Dean flips Jo's sunglasses up to sit atop his ahead, tries for a suitable expression of plainitive penitence, and blunders on, "Well, you know, it really struck a chord with us, I know. I mean, I don't wanna go to hell any more than the next guy..."

Dean looks over at Castiel, who is staring at him with an unfathomable expression, like he might scream or cry or kiss him or break his nose.

"So, uh," Dean searches for words. He's really in it now. If he can't carry this through, they're all screwed. It's not all lies, in fairness to himself – they have given up anything that would really get Castiel screwed over by his family... such as, for example, underage drinking and illegal drugs – but the line between reality and fantasy is blurring a little. "We came back, apologised to Castiel here, and we just wanted to know if there was any way we hope to save our souls before it was too late." Dean exhales heavily, puffing his cheeks out, and adds brightly, "I guess you could say we've converted!"

Zachariah stares at Dean, torn halfway between irritation and scepticism.

"Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another," Castiel suddenly says. "Forgive as the Lord forgave you."

Everyone swivels to look at Castiel in confusion.

He squirms where he is sitting, eyes darting anxiously between them all, and his fingers play with a blade of grass that threads up behind his foot. He clears his throat. "Colossians 3.13."

Fighting the urge to leap to his feet and scream about how badly Zachariah just got _burned_, Dean leans back against the old alder tree and gazes evenly up at him. A blank expression has slid over Zachariah's face – an expression of surrender so frustrated that Dean wonders idly if he's going to explode into a giant ball of darkness and the souls of unhappy children just to make the point – but Zachariah merely gives a short nod.

"I'm glad you've been remembering your studies, Castiel," he says stiffly, forcing a smile. "It won't do to have you falling behind."

Castiel stares back, and while there's still a hot flush smudged under his jaw and along his throat, he is perfectly calm now. "Teaching them is helping me to learn as well," he replies quietly. "They're good students. They've particularly enjoyed Ephesians."

"Well." Zachariah pinches the front of his suit lapels and tugs it neatly to straighten the sit of the cotton on his shoulders. His smile widens coldly, his eyes hollow. "How nice for them." He continues gazing down at them all for a second, but seems to have nothing else he could say to cut through their identical, innocently wide grins; he turns on his heel and heads back up the path.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Jo punches Dean hard enough on the shoulder that her goofy sunglasses fall off the top of his head. "You are so full of shit, I swear to god."

"Full of shit that just saved our asses, thank you very much," Dean retorts, rubbing his arm with a scowl. "Anyway – nice move with the Bible quote, Cas."

"What's Ephesians?" Victor asks, reaching over to take the ipod from where it's been discarded next to Castiel's knee, and scrolling through it.

"The Epistle to the Ephesians is a book from the New Testament." Castiel rolls his shoulders, stretches a little, and leans back against the tree-trunk beside Dean. "It's Zachariah's least favourite part of the Bible as it largely discusses the fact that God made you the way you are, therefore God likes the way you are, therefore it's not anyone's place to discriminate against the way you are, therefore be kind to everyone, etcetera, etcetera."

"So... basically you just gave him a Biblical Falcon Punch," Victor summarises.

Castiel's brow puckers up. "I don't understand that reference. But yes."

Jo laughs and reaches over to pat him on the cheek. "Sweetie, for that, you can listen to all the Kesha you want."

Castiel seems pleased with this outcome.

**Week 5, Day +40**

Dean pulls the butt of the shotgun tight into his shoulder - tips all his weight onto his forwards leg – closes one eye. Pulls the trigger. _Click_. Of course, nothing happens; both barrels are empty, but that's because it's only a demonstration. He lowers the gun, looks over at his shoulder. "Got it?"

The staff seem to recognise that the elevens, as the oldest group in the camp, will get bored easily, so every week it is organised for them to go out Friday morning to do something more exhilarating. The kids stand in a dejected semi-circle, squinting in the bright light as Dean tries to demonstrate how to hold and fire the shotgun. One guy is picking his nose. Another guy looks fascinated by some gunk he's found under his fingernails. It's looking good so far.

"Sammy," Dean calls. "I mean – Sam. Come up here." Since Dean's been dealt the elevens this week, shared with Anna Milton, he's been trying to treat Sam like anyone else: no baby nicknames, no embarrassing stories. In exchange, Sam behaves himself and keeps everyone else in line.

Weaving past two girls who giggle and flick at his baby cheeks, Sam makes his way out to the front. He's still only up to Dean's shoulders and built skinny, but he's the only one Dean trusts – and maybe if Sammy blows a clay right out of the air, the others will snap to attention.

"You alright?" Dean asks in an undertone, snapping the gun open to pop two cartridges in.

Sam nods, pulling ear-defenders on. "I've seen you do it a hundred times with dad."

"Yeah, but actually doing it's different, and dad's not here now," Dean reminds him. He snaps the gun back together. "Don't shoot yourself in the leg or anything."

With an annoyed noise in the back of his throat, Sam rolls his eyes and gestures impatiently. However, he's careful as Dean hands the shotgun over, his hands folding carefully around the wood like it's precious. He fits it to his shoulder and leans forwards.

"Nope, further." Dean presses a hand between his shoulder-blades and pushes at him until he settles more weight onto his forwards leg. "Otherwise when you lift the gun to follow the clay, you'll tip back and fall on your ass – and there's some chick watching you, so let's not try for that."

Sam glances over. Sarah Coonce is eyeing him coyly, and when they make eye-contact, she smiles and looks away quickly. Sam gives a dorky giggle. Dean smacks him upside the head.

"Focus, man."

"Yeah, right. Okay." Concentrating so hard that Dean's surprised he can still see, Sam leans forwards, grips the barrel tight and clicks the safety off. "Ready – pull."

Dean waves a hand at the guy in charge of the clay-pigeon-shooting session, who absently presses clicks a remote and then returns to whatever he and Missouri Moseley were fervently discussing. A machine clunks and whirrs and hisses... and then a small, almost invisible black disc flies high and fast across the sky.

Sam shoots.

The crack of the shell seems to snap all the other kids into focus – and if that doesn't do it, their attention is caught by the chips of dark clay that twist and fall nearby, burying sharp points into the red dirt. They perk up immediately, nudging arms and chattering excitedly. Sam beams so wide his face could split. Sarah winks.

Dean is a hundred percent certain that _someone _has got to stop his eleven-year-old brother from being such a lady-killer, stat.

The other kids bustle to form a line and get one introductory shot each with Dean guiding them.

After that, they share out enough boxes of shells that each kid can fill the next three hours with intermittent clay-shooting and granola-bar-snacking; they traipse through fields of cropped brown grass, itching the stinging welts that low shrubbery leaves on their bare legs, swatting at cicadas. They line up the shotgun and fire, when it's their turn; they sit cross-legged and chatter quietly, when it isn't. A competition is set for the best marksman and Sammy wins by a hundred miles. Sarah asks to sit with him on the bus back.

When each eleven-year-old has shot enough to feel like Rambo and the sun is stretching soft and pale, they climb back onto the Camp Chiquata minibus back home. It's an hour and a half's drive back and they've missed dinner, stopping off at Burger King instead.

By the time they get back to base, the sun is low, blurred technicolour against the horizon. Missouri shepherds the kids back to their cabins; Dean waves tiredly as he heads down the adjacent path towards the housing block. The building throws dim squares of light from behind the flimsy curtains of every window; Dean's windows are dimmer still, blueish, flickering.

He climbs up the stairs, feeling exhausted and heavy after a long day, and pushes through his apartment door to find near-darkness, in which Jo, Victor and Castiel are snuggled under an odd assortment of blankets and couch cushions on the floor, intently watching a laptop screen. Tinny screams can be heard from it, and Dean vaguely recognises Nightmare On Elm Street.

"Hey." He tosses down his backpack, letting it slide half-heartedly across the kitchen linoleum.

They all look up, giving an acknowledging nod before returning to the action in front of them. Castiel's gaze lingers a fraction longer than the others; the corner of his mouth lifts a fraction higher than the others'.

Ignoring their whining complaints and swatting hands, Dean climbs awkwardly over to them to fill the space next to Castiel, and as they settle back into watching some kids get mutilated, they curl together beneath the covers, warm and quiet. Their fingers touch.

**Week 5, Day +39**

Chuck turns forty on a Saturday, and since he's now settling comfortably into middle-age with nothing more to show for it than a bungalow outside of Dallas and an on-off girlfriend, Chiquita staff decide that at the very least he deserves a party.

The foyer of the main building is all done up with cheap balloons and synthetic bouquets of flowers; half-heartedly twinkling strands of fairy-lights wilt from the ceiling; bad glam-rock is pounding from a ten-dollar stereo. At eight pm, as ever, the little kids are all ushered off to bed, and save for one unfortunate volunteer, all the staff – adult and teenaged alike – are invited. It had promised to be lame but so far Pamela Barnes has grabbed Castiel's ass twice and Jo has been on the receiving end of some seriously intense come-hither stares from Garth Jack, which makes for pretty good entertainment.

"If that woman touches me again, I want one of you to call the police," Castiel tells them as he attempts to worm backwards in a cranny in the wall where he can't be reached.

Jo squints at him contemplatively. "Maybe we could doll you up, give you a hat – she'd never recognise you," she teases.

Castiel looks at her hard. "My sexuality does not entitle you to dress me up," he says sourly.

"I don't know, man, I think you'd look great in zebra-print," Dean laughs, swiftly ducking out of the way when Castiel aims a kick at his shin.

Unfortunately, the attack is only a disadvantage to Castiel; as he emerges from his hidden space in the wall, Pamela catches sight of him from the other side of the room, and, without further ado, comes strutting purposefully over.

"Oh gosh," Castiel panics, clutching at Jo's sleeve. "She's coming – help-"

"Hey there, sweet-cheeks," she grins devilishly, grabbing Castiel by the waist. His eyes fly wide, glancing back at the others in one last desperate bid for help before she whirls him away. "This dance is ours."

The three remaining stand, birthday cake in hand, and spend a few minutes watching Castiel be dragged all across the dance-floor like a badly-coordinated sex puppet.

"I'm pretty sure that's sexual harassment," Victor comments idly.

"Possibly."

Jo stuffs another piece of cake into her mouth.

However, when Castiel tries to escape after the torment of two Iggy Pop songs, stumbling back towards them with an expression like he has lost all will to live – only to be caught and pulled back – they agree that it's time to stage an intervention. Victor suggests starting a food-fight, while Dean is a hundred-percent convinced that the best option would simply be to invite her outside and feed her to bears, but in the end Jo does it.

Giving no indication of what she's about to do, she pushes her paper-plate into Dean's hands with an imperious, "_Hold this_,"and strides confidently out onto the dance-floor. Victor and Dean fumble to throw down their plates and forks into a potted plant and hurry after her – just in time to see her tap Pamela on the shoulder mid-lunge and say, "Excuse me?"

Pamela turns to face them, hands still clamped tight onto Castiel's waist. She smiles broadly. "Hey. How can I help you?"

Jo flashes her sweetest smile – the same one that Dean and Victor have forever resented for earning her unfair treatment. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I noticed that Castiel here is just about the worst dancer I've ever seen, and I couldn't help thinking that maybe an education would be beneficial to everyone before he did anymore dancing. And therefore, with your permission," she concluded with a perfect straight face, "I would like to teach him how to dougie."

Castiel's forehead creases up with bewilderment, and Dean has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing.

Pamela, on the other hand, chuckles throatily and is happy to release Castiel, who staggers to Dean's side, hands groping for safety. She steps back to harass someone else, wishing them all the best, and only then can Castiel sag gratefully onto Dean's shoulder.

"Hey, buck up," Jo says, smirking. "I wasn't kidding."

"What?" Castiel's face crumples with dismay at the thought of more dancing, his spine curving sadly into Dean's side for shelter.

"Come on, this is an essential part of life." Jo reaches forwards and takes his hands in hers, pulling him away from Dean. "Trust me – you'll get all the boys."

It becomes quickly apparent that Castiel, for all his sulky lack of enthusiasm, is actually a fairly good dancer. He doesn't understand the point of learning how to dougie and spends most of the time asking who Dougie was, but obediently bounces, sways and swings with as much swag as is ever going to be produced by a skinny white guy.

"You're doing it, sweetie!" Jo cackles, clapping her hands together.

"Leave him alone," Dean says defensively. "He looks like a douchebag."

"He looks like a very fashionable douchebag," Jo retorts.

"What am I doing?" Castiel asks, with a note of fear in his voice – still awkwardly trying to dance like a New York gangster.

Dean claps his hands on Castiel's shoulders. "Ignore all that crap," he says. "No-one is ever actually going to judge you on your ability to freaking... _dougie_."

"Sorry?" Castiel frowns. "I can't hear you."

Dean leans forwards so that his mouth is near enough the shell of Castiel's ear to be heard over Missouri Moseley's drunken karaoke, and tries again. "It doesn't matter," he repeats loudly. "Forget about the dumb dancing!"

Pulling back, Dean sees Castiel's eyes flicker up to meet Dean's, pink flushing all the lines of his cheekbones, and there's something soft and anxious there like he's going to answer, like he's going to say something important in this moment when they're still standing so close that they could be dancing, breath fanning over each other's faces cool and tangy with cheap champagne – and then Castiel's eyes flash away, to something just beyond Dean, and fall.

"Okay," is all that he says, and yet somehow it still feels life-changing.

Dean squeezes Castiel's shoulders. "Okay."


	10. The One Where Cas Swings His Hips

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Ten**

**Week 6, +37**

Dean's phone buzzes shrilly against the work-top.

He swipes the sponge one last time over the saddle, leaving a shining trail of soap against the leather, before stretching past it to reach where his cell is sitting abandoned on the counter.

_What is the favourite musical instrument of a dentist?_

Dean stares down at the small screen, baffled, and replies to Castiel only with one word: _what? _He waits a couple seconds to check that the text sends before returning to the saddle.

He's on Equestrian duty, cleaning the equipment while Bela Talbot is off escorting Anna Milton through the woods, eight-year-olds in tow. It isn't the most exciting job in the world but it's strangely therapeutic – the careful sweep and rinse, the oiling. It reminds him a little of helping his dad fix his car, and it's relaxing.

Just as he throws the sponge into the bucket and heads into the back room to fetch a small towel with which to wipe away the residual soap, his phone buzzes again. He comes back, towel in hand, and picks up the phone.

_A tuba toothpaste._

Dean snickers under his breath. He tucks the towel into his arm-pit for a second so that his fingers are free to key in a response.

_You're getting this from your nines, aren't you?_

Now he finds distracted as he cleans, not really concentrating on the calming glide of the towel over the leather as he seeks out the nooks where soap still lingers; he's waiting for the rattling vibration of Castiel's reply. He certainly isn't disappointed.

_Their jokes are excellent._

Dean cracks a smile at that, but before he can respond, another comes in: _Where do pigs park their cars?_

Dean rests the bundled-up towel on top of the saddle and opens a new text-message.

_I don't know. Where do pigs park their cars, Cas?_

They've only recently fallen into this – texting each other at every hour of the day – but it feels fun, and it feels right. Dean likes Castiel's running commentary of his group of nine-year-olds, which is always hilarious, usually sarcastic and sometimes very endearing, though Dean wouldn't admit to that under pain of death... but then again, he never does. He'd never admit to feeling that kind of thing – if he felt that kind of thing, which he doesn't – so it's all a bit moot point.

He's lost in thought, hasn't even picked up the towel again, and his cell vibrates with the incoming text before he's even thought to set it down.

_In porking lots._

Dean laughs out-right at that, eyes crinkling at the corners.

**Week 6, +35**

It's official – '_dancercise' _is the worst thing ever to happen to Dean.

Every godamned session he has to take his kids down to the roofed pergola in the tree line and set them up in lines or pairs to shimmy their way through another Abba song, a part of his soul dies. He just has to get this over with and hope that no-one else sees.

"Okay," he says brightly, clapping his hands together with false enthusiasm as the elevens kick off their shoes and get ready. "You know the drill, guys. Separate – girls on that side, boys on that side. Today we're gonna learn to salsa. Okay?"

The kids dully chorus, "Okay." Sam, however, snickers at the back of his group, and Dean is tempted to throw a sneaker at him.

"Right. Girls first."

Dean retrieves the remote from the box fitted into one of supporting poles and points it at the sound-system build into the arched beams of the roof, pressing buttons at random until some music comes on. He doesn't know what it is – something fast, a little bit Spanish-sounding, with a four-four beat they can follow – but it's good enough.

He turns his back on them so that the kids can see his feet move in the same directions as theirs. "First things first with the girls. Uh, your left foot – no, wait. Your _right foot_... goes _backwards_." He pauses, weighing it up in his head, trying to imagine how this would work. "No. Wait."

Dean twists, trying to see his own feet from their perspective to see if what he's explaining makes sense, but nearly falls over – and that's when he hears the low, wheezy chuckle from the far side of the pergola where the sidewalk runs on to the beach.

Identifying that laugh before he turns and hating himself for it, Dean straightens and turns with a scowl. "What do you want?"

Castiel leans against one of the pergola's supporting poles, smirking. His face is bright with sunburn, his hair damp and unruly, and Dean guesses that he's been down at Water Sports. "Oh, nothing, nothing," he says dismissively, waving a hand. "Please, go on."

Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously at Castiel before returning to face his kids. He tugs at the collar of his shirt to make sure it's neat, and then continues. "Okay," he declares. "The boy's part. While the girls put their right feet backwards, you do the opposite. So you put your left forwards." He stamps one foot down in front of the other, and turns back to check that they're all following. "Yeah? Like that? Okay, and– _what_?" Dean demands, swivelling back to face Castiel, who is currently using the side of the pergola to support himself as he giggles idiotically to himself. "You want to make fun of my dancing? Okay, hotshot – _you _come and teach them."

Castiel pushes off the siding and strides arrogantly up to meet Dean, the corners of his mouth quirking up mischievously. "Maybe I will."

"Oh, will you?" Dean laughs. "Cas, we _taught _you how to dance like less than a week ago. We created you!"

"Dean," Castiel replies, with a patronising note to his voice that's somewhat ruined by his flailing struggle to take his shoes off. "I know how to salsa. Unfortunately for me, the school where Michael sent me to be educated included ballroom dance as a compulsory module. They think it's necessary for young gentlemen and ladies to be able to dance, so... aside from with _dougie_, I think I can probably out-dance you."

"Dude, you don't dance _with _dougie," Dean tells him, somehow oblivious to the way that Castiel is stepping closer with intent. "You dance _a _dougie."

Ignoring him, Castiel turns his head to look over at the kids, who are staring at them all in confused belief. Sam, in particular, has an expression of mingled horror and disbelief. "Pair up," Castiel calls, "and make sure that you're in a position where you can both see Dean and I."

The eleven-year-olds perform the awkward cooties shuffle before attempting to make eye contact with someone of the opposite sex, blushing and making immature jokes before eventually settling in couples.

Dean notices that Sam is not with Sarah, despite her blatant smiles every time he comes anywhere close; Sam is with Madison, who looks equally delighted. Dean can only roll his eyes a little. Jesus, his little brother is such an animal.

Castiel turns back to face Dean. "Do you want to be the girl, or...?"

"Uh, I'll be the dude," Dean says hesitantly. There's a knot in his throat, an itch under his skin. He shifts from one foot to the other. "You just... tell me what to do though."

"Okay." Castiel takes Dean's left hand and manoeuvres it to the right place, shifting him and nudging at his elbow until he follows instructions. "The boy's left hand loosely holds the girl's hand at chest level," he narrates to the elevens still watching. "The boy's right hand is on the small of the girl's back; the girl's left hand is on the shoulder." He rests his hand lightly on Dean's side, just on his hip, before sliding around lightly to the dip in his spine. Dean tenses, feeling something like a shiver roll in waves from the touch of Castiel's hand, all the way to the hairs lifting on the back of his neck.

Dean is staring down at Castiel's elbow, as though he could somehow trace its path all the way around to his hand; suddenly Castiel tips his head to catch Dean's attention, pull his eyes back.

"Dean? Your hand on my shoulder."

Feeling heat searing up his neck and ears, Dean does as he's told, and is opening his mouth to bumble through an apology when Castiel turns away to continue instructing the elevens.

"Okay, got that? Hang on – I'm sorry, I don't know your name. Christian? Okay, your hand needs to be on her back, not her waist. Okay – yes, that's better. Right, now we move." Castiel twists back to Dean, looking up at him with the faintest flicker of a smile before continuing. "Boys, take one step forwards with your left foot – girls, take one step back with your right."

Castiel steps before Dean has worked out which foot is which and what he needs to be doing, and there's a fleeting moment when their bodies press together, flush from chest to toe. Dean steps back fast like he's been scalded.

"Okay, now both step in place. Then step back to the left foot, so that you're in the position you started with." Castiel glances over. "Once this speeds up, it'll be more exciting, I promise."

Dean's eyes lift to the roof of the pergola as he gulps. He doesn't really need _more exciting_, to be honest. He doesn't say this; he follows like a puppet as Castiel leads the kids through the same step but backwards, with the other foot.

"Everyone okay?" Castiel checks, looking over all the pairs of elevens. "Good. Now we can try it again – in time to the music. It's faster but it's still pretty easy, so you'll be fine. Alright – ready? One, two, three, four-"

And then they're moving.

Dean clings tight to Castiel, marginally afraid that he's going to trip and embarrass himself in front of his little brother and his entire group, but Castiel's hand is an anchor on his back and he never so much as falters.

The only problem then is the twist and pull of muscle delicately under Dean's hand, the shape of Castiel's lips as he calls out the beat, one two three four, the subtle rock of their hips together with every step. Dean can feel the heat in his face, burning up from his ears and jaw worse than usual, and there's nothing he can do but gulp and try to think about old ladies and dead people, and none of it is working in the slightest.

Castiel turns away to watch the others for a few seconds. "More enthusiasm," he tells them firmly. "This isn't a boring dance unless it's danced by boring people. Put some energy into it. Girls – you've seen it on TV, right? All the hip-swinging and-"

Oh, Jesus fuck. If Castiel starts swinging his hips, Dean is going to have a fully-fledged mental breakdown.

"Alright, shall we go for a turn?" Castiel asks, glancing over. "Girls, turn your body ninety degrees to the left, and step back with your left leg – like this – see? Okay? Then just shift your weight right over."

While Castiel gently lectures the eleven-year-olds on something called a ball-change, Dean once again lets himself be dragged backwards and forwards to demonstrate the turn. He should really get Castiel to take all his dance sessions – this is a lot more fun than usual.

Then they're ready to go – with a called _one two three four _– and they're off. Dean stumbles a little and recovers with the comforting press of Castiel's fingertips into the small of his back, like he's been held up and held close and held together all at once. Their eyes meet and from then it's easy. Dance is secondary; Dean is lost in Castiel's infinite warmth, the crease in his brow when he concentrates, the lopsided pull of his mouth as he tries not to smile. This is a lesson, after all.

They step and step and step again – and Dean can see now that Castiel definitely _can _dance, because with every movement he incorporates a twist that pushes his leg between Dean's thighs, a roll from his chest down to his hips, a push that has his body lining up against Dean's like he's trying to own it.

Dean has given up. He's not fighting back or trying to keep the distance or staring at the eleven-year-olds past Castiel, because it's just exhausting.

Castiel's eyes flicker warmly over his face, lingering on his lips for a second too long, then back to his eyes with the spark of a smile; there is a roar of blood under Dean's skin, a hollow pound in the base of his stomach to rival the tempo, and all of it is begging him to just push back into Castiel and take everything. He might do that.

He wonders idly, in the moment when Castiel glances away to instruct the elevens, what dancing with Lisa would be like.

**Week 6, Day +33**

Somehow, at some point, every volunteer in the camp became aware of the beach over the rocks, and it very quickly becomes The Place To Be.

They whisper across the cafeteria tables; nudge each other as they pass on the sidewalk to their various sessions; wink at each other after dinner when they say, "Alright, see you tomorrow, then!" to suggest they fully intend to stay in all night like good little boys and girls. And then, come nine pm, when all volunteers are meant to be heading back to the housing block to get ready for bed, they disperse in small groups down to the beach.

At first, Dean, Jo, Castiel, and Victor dislike it, wanting back the private area that they'd claimed as their own, but then when they have to start toning down their behaviour to keep Castiel from getting thrown onto the first plane back to Philadelphia, they realise that peer pressure is the perfect excuse. Zachariah can't yell at them if all the volunteers are doing it – otherwise he'd have to fire everyone and his entire business would quickly fall apart.

So now, every Friday at nine o'clock, after they pedal down from Singer's cafe in Alben, whooping in the lowlight on the exhilarating downhill freewheel, they ditch their bikes and run for it the beach.

The sand crests up beneath their feet as they hurry down, still warm from being heated all day by the sun, and the cold salt breeze whipping up from the ocean only serves to heighten their breathless excitement. They glance back over their shoulders, before clambering over the sharp black rocks to the party on the other side.

A small fire is already flickering half-heartedly on the sand, swallowing up small twigs faster than wood can be found for it. Gordon Walker crouches to tend to it, poking at the kindling to keep it going until Meg Masters comes back from where the beach trails off into low shrubbery and woodland, arms laden with firewood.

"Heya, Clarence," she says coolly when she spots Castiel, lips stretching into a smile. "How's it going?"

"I'm very well, thank you," says Castiel, watching the flames twist and leap hungrily around the new logs. After a moment, he drags his attention back to Meg. "Would you like any help?"

Her smile stretches wider, and she slings an arm comfortably around his neck as they move off to collect more firewood. Dean watches them go for a good few seconds before he catches himself; it's an effort to drag his eyes away, and more so to rearrange his facial expression into something less hostile. They'll be back soon – and Castiel doesn't even bat for that team. It's fine.

Three trips to the tree line later, they've got a roaring fire plus a good supply of wood to keep them going for the next few hours. By that time, most of the volunteers have made their way over – albeit not all in one piece, as Garth nurses his bleeding knee from tripping on the way over the rocks.

The few who are old enough disappear a few times to the divey-looking bar a hundred yards or so down the beach and come back with drinks – plenty for themselves and a few between them for the others to share out. Meg Masters, bless the kindness of her enormous, altruistic heart, brings Castiel a steady supply of drinks... although, in her favour, she shares a look of absolute horror with Dean when she asks Castiel what beer he wants and he replies absent-mindedly that he's always wanted to try a pina colada. Nonetheless, she's game, and Castiel looks perfectly content sipping through his mini-straw, cocktail umbrella cocked jauntily to one side of the glass.

They tell jokes. They compare groups, bitching about the staff constantly bearing down on them with _rules _and _regulations _and _we'd hate to have to tell you again about this - _for the first time, Castiel offers a derogatory comment about Zachariah; he reddens a little under the collar when all eyes flash to him surprisingly, but his eyes are hard. Anna Milton has brought a pack of cards; Dean deals.

"Queen of diamonds," Bela says smoothly, slapping her card face-down into the sand and smirking around at them all challengingly.

"Bull_shit_!"

"Oh, you should be so lucky!" Bela replies, her smile wicked with triumph, and she peels up her card – as well as all the others heaped up on the floor - to throw it across at Dean, who has yet again been unfortunate to go up against her.

Fifteen minutes later has seen Bela Talbot wiping the floor with them all, and it's pretty embarrassing. The circle divided after it became apparent that they couldn't all play cards without some of them abandoning the warmth of the fire, and as the night temperature drops and drops, a few have retreated to the far side of the group where the heat is strongest. The others play Bullshit.

"Damnit." Dean shuffles it into his set of cards and starts again. "Okay – four of hearts."

"Wait!" Castiel interrupts loudly from the opposite side of the circle; he immediately begins flipping through his own. Since he happens to be just about the worst liar in the Northern Hemisphere, he very quickly ended up with the majority of the pack. This gives him the advantage of being able to see if anyone is lying because it's pretty hard to bluff when Castiel has eighty percent of the cards, and so he's pretty pleased with himself, not seeming to grasp that the intent of the game is not the end up with all the cards. "No – yes, okay, it's true. You can proceed."

"Well, thanks, Your Highness," Gabriel remarks, sitting cross-legged on Dean's left. "Alrighty, then. Five of hearts."

"Six of spades."

"Okay, seven of-"

"_Wait_!" Castiel squawks, rifling furiously through his cards. "Wait, wait – no – no!" He looks up from his card-fan with an almost deranged expression of victory on his face. "I call _bullshit_!"

Jo clenches her cards into one solid cube and throws them all at him.

Every time the fire so much as flinches like it might go out, they pile more logs on. At one Ash offers himself as a human shield from the wind, but then Meg tosses on a chunk of bark, and the flames crackle and leap up wildly, scorching the hem of Ash's shirt.

They crunch beer cans into distorted shapes and toss them in the fire to watch them crack and pop, paint melting into horror-movie colours.

They sing the dumb campfire songs that they have to teach the kids for the survival sessions – "like they expect that being able to sing Nelly The Elephant is going to stop a hungry bear," Jo comments sarcastically. Garth laughs louder than anyone, gazing dreamily at her with his chin propped on his fists. Jo tells him in her most serious tone that she doesn't want another relationship after her two-day marriage to Billy Ray Cyrus ended with a bad case of syphilis; he smiles, places a hand reassuringly on her knee and tells her that he understands her pain and will always be there to help her through the hard times. Dean pulls a muscle trying not to laugh.

They re-congregate in a circle around the fire, passing bottles around – Victor shudders every time it comes near him at the thought of how unhygienic the bottle mouths must be after all that shared saliva. Gabriel comforts him by saying, "don't worry, bro – it's no worse than making out with us all one after the other... and I'm pretty sure only three of us had the garlic beef for dinner, so it's not even that bad" and Victor gags a little.

Fireflies swirl and twist through the air over their heads, and when the wind picks up off the ocean and snags through hair and clothes, they're scattered like tiny lights or glitter. The cocktail umbrella on Castiel's third pina colada is snatched away and he gazes mournfully after it like he's lost a dear friend. Anna's laugh is high-pitched and screechy, but it makes everyone else laugh.

Reasonably innocent questions like _would you rather be blind or deaf _and _how many liqueur chocolates would it take to get hammered _soon take a personal turn and before they're entirely sure what's happened, they've all veered into a lame highschool cliché and find themselves playing Truth Or Dare.

Gordon comes back spluttering after a straight shot of absinthe, courtesy of the bar – who Dean would even say are actively encouraging drunken teenage stupidity, as long as it gets them money – and then he jabs a finger across the circle at Anna Milton.

"Truth," she says.

"Alright – Anna. If you were forced into prostitution right now, how much would your starting price be?"

Everyone titters nervously – it's a pretty weird question to start with – but Anna doesn't seem fazed. She plays thoughtfully with a long strand of red hair for a second before answering: "I think I'd start with eighty dollars."

"Eighty dollars?" Ash echoes. "Sorry, sweetheart, but no way."

"Is that a lot?" Anna purses her lips together anxiously. "I don't know. I mean... I'm kind of interesting-looking – red hair, pale skin and everything. And I'm pretty sure everyone likes a virgin."

There are some immature coos and wolf-whistles at the last part, but it's decided that Anna's answer is fair enough, although Ash tells her with unsettling savoir-faire that sixty dollars and up is usually saved for celebrity porn-stars and she'd probably sell for round-about fifty.

Bela, far too enigmatic for the truth, chooses dare and agrees to go skinny-dip with coquettish enthusiasm, shrugging off her dress with a coy backwards glance that catches all the boys' attention. Castiel and the girls make idle conversation until she comes back, damp and salt-sparkly in the light that the bonfire throws. She wriggles back into her clothes. "Next!"

Dean gets asked which animal he would bone if he had to in order to save his life, and people seem faintly disappointed when he picks a chimpanzee. "Well, they're closest to humans - what was I meant to choose, a budgie?" he demands.

Then it's Jo's turn, and she's called upon by Ash to give someone a hickey, which she rolls her eyes at, but agrees. "Alright, alright... hang on – Cas, sweetie, you're gonna have to get up."

After three pina coladas and an experimental raspberry woo-woo to really test his comfort zone, it's fair to say that Castiel is reasonably tipsy. He's moved all around the circle, but at this point is partially curled up in Jo's lap, pressing his cheek into her neck like a particularly over-affectionate pet cat. He blinks a couple of times, not really understanding, and then reluctantly peels himself away from her to let her escape so that she can crawl over to Dean – the only one she'll feel comfortable sexually harassing, she says.

"Oh, lucky me," Dean mutters, and tugs the collar of his shirt past his collarbone where it's less incriminating. He tips his head, grimacing as Jo makes contact and clamps down – "hey – _ow –_ jesus, Jo, I'd like some skin left afterwards, please" – and the responsive laughter from everyone else causes his eyes to flicker back down; he finds Castiel first.

Castiel is watching the spot where Jo's mouth meets Dean's skin with a kind of distracted intensity like a bomb just went off and he's not sure what he should do about it, mini-straw lost halfway to his lips. He doesn't even notice that Dean is looking at him. A heat comes up fierce under Dean's skin and he drags his eyes away, staring determinedly up into the night sky until Jo is done.

"There!" Jo declares, pulling away with a smack. She pats Dean sympathetically on the shoulder for being a good sport before she shuffles back to her spot in the circle beside Castiel. "Sorry about that."

Dean grumbles a little under his breath, rolling his shoulders like the action will somehow ease the throb of his collarbone. For a girl who doesn't date, Jo can pack a sexual punch.

Truth Or Dare goes around in a circle one by one, Dean knows, and for some reason he finds his pulse beating fast in his fingers at the thought of this game progressing. He burrows his feet deep into the sand for a distraction and plays with a loose pebble.

"Okay, Cas – your go," says Jo, twisting in the sand until she can lie down on her stomach and lie down, face half-nestled in the crook of her elbow. "You know the drill. Truth or dare."

Castiel stretches lazily and twists his mouth with thoughtful consideration. "If I pick dare, will that require me taking my clothes off?" he asks.

Dean's mouth is very dry.

"You bet it, hot stuff." Meg smirks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Dean swallows hard.

Castiel shifts uncomfortably. "Alright. Truth, I suppose."

Meg's smile only grows. She hums indecisively for a few seconds before her face lights up, and before she speaks, she presses the lip of her beer bottle to her lower lip and leans forwards as though to whisper a secret. Dean doesn't miss the clear view down her low-cut shirt. Dean doesn't miss the way Castiel's eyes briefly follow that view – admittedly, without a great deal of enthusiasm, but it still pisses Dean off.

"Okay," she says, voice low and suave. "Who here have you fantasised about?"

Castiel only has time to blink, like he's disappointed but not surprised, before Gordon interrupts with a short, barking laugh.

"Christ, way to waste a question, Meg," he chuckles, the self-satisfied grin saying that he gets a personal kick out of being an asshole. "Saint Castiel probably doesn't even realise that he can use his dick for something other than peeing."

"But, Cas, darling," Bela joins in with a bitchy tone of patronising kindness, "babies are brought by storks, aren't they?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if-"

"Dean Winchester."

The older volunteers are still laughing for roundabout forty seconds after Castiel has spoken, and then, one after the other, the sound of their voices fade into silence. Dean doesn't see the reactions on their faces as he's currently staring quite determinedly into the fire, but he bets Meg is furious.

"Come again?"

"Dean." Castiel's voice is subdued, a little awkward, but perfectly calm. "I've fantasised about Dean."

It's weird – the strangest things are going through Dean's mind right now. He wonders if Meg shaved her legs tonight under the assumption that she was going to get with Castiel; he knows that girls do that sometimes and then get really annoyed when they don't get lucky. He wonders what the carbon footprint of this bonfire would be. He wonders how many units of alcohol are in a pina colada. He wonders if Gordon and Bela made a pact early in the summer to be the single bitchiest duo in the universe, or if everything sort of fell into place along the way. That's usually the way with things.

Anyway, it doesn't really matter. The only important thing is that Dean isn't thinking about Castiel.

Dean isn't thinking about the spread-leg solid stance against the feeble rush of Chiquita water pressure in a shower cubicle, forearm braced tight against the tiles with Dean's name silent on his lips. Head tipped back, water spilling over his shoulders and chest as he works – hand a tunnelled shift and pull over his cock, an insistent press and twist that cuts his breath hard and ragged, a build and build and build and crash-

Heat is burning under Dean's skin, every nerve humming to screaming-pitch at the idea – the idea that he let in by accident and now can't destroy – of Castiel seeking out elusive camp privacy to judder against a mattress or shower wall, mouth wide and seeking _Dean_. His heartbeat is a rage against ribs to be let out; his hands tremble a little. He buries them deep in the sand and clears his throat with affected nonchalance.

Eyes flash over to him - Castiel's too, maybe, although Dean doesn't see because he won't look that way.

Jo looks unsettlingly unsurprised by this turn of events, which is all at once very reassuring and kind of pisses Dean off. Stupid Jo always knows everything. She should have known this was a bad idea.

"Uh, Gabriel's turn now, right?" Dean offers.

"Yeah," Bela replies, fixing a cool stare on her like she's trying to challenge him into action. She wants some drama – a love story or a rejection or maybe some sand-throwing homophobia. Well, she can screw herself. She pushes back her hair over her shoulders and calls Gabriel out, truth or dare.

The circle moves on.


	11. The One Where Dean Mentions Semen A Lot

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Eleven**

**Week 6, Day +32**

When midnight ticks over with the faint glow of dying embers and Garth curled up asleep by Anna's feet, it is unanimously agreed that it's time to head back. In twos and threes, they unpeel themselves from where they collapsed in lazy conversation, bodies sticky with cold sweat. They dust the sand from their clothes and carefully pick their way back over the rocks.

As soon as the volunteers begin to dissipate in small groups, Dean is struck with the horrible knowledge that the universe is going to conspire against him and he is going to end up alone with Castiel.

And right now, that is _really _not an acceptable turn of events.

Meg kicks out the last of the fire with what seems like a little more aggression than the task really calls for, and Dean tries not to make eye contact with her as she and Gabriel clear up. Laughter fades into cautious silence as everyone navigates back to the housing block; Dean watches everyone leave, heart hammering in his throat.

At last, Jo hauls herself up. Dean instantly scrambles to his feet, words jumbling up in his mouth as he tries to get her attention, bring her back and make her wait for him – but he trips. He trips on an empty plastic cup, of all things, and then Jo is climbing the rocks with Ash in tow, and Victor is long gone, and Dean is left.

"Right," he announces loudly, clapping his hands together and plastering the biggest grin on his face. "It's been fun! We should do this again sometime! Yeah. Okay. See you all tomorrow, I guess! I'll just go now - okay - bye, guys!"

He sets one foot on the rocks, jamming the toe of his sneaker into a crevice, and then he hears the rustle of someone behind him. He recognises that shadow.

Well, crap.

Face already burning red at the thought of Castiel behind him, possibly even staring at his ass as he climbs, Dean moves fast and jumps clean over the side on the way down. He strides off purposefully towards the tree-line where the beach ends and the winding sidewalk back to camp begins. Castiel is right on his heels.

They don't speak.

Without even looking over at him, Dean is excruciatingly aware of Castiel's presence at his elbow – long, narrow body, warm and solid, beating, breathing. All he wants to do is go back to his apartment and go to bed and bury himself in lies and never think about this whole evening again. That's it. Really.

"Dean-" Castiel starts.

"Yeah?" Dean cuts in, totally casual and oblivious of how loud he is. He swings his arms a little wildly as he walks, like a caricature of someone at ease. "What's up, man?"

"I just want to apologise if I made you uncomfortable earlier."

Dean's laugh is something bordering on hysterical. "What? When?"

There's a long, awkward pause and Dean can just picture Castiel's expression – that scrunch of his brow, the confused downwards pull of his mouth – and Dean would cringe were he not determinedly denying the last four hours as a whole.

"I mean," Castiel says carefully, "my admission to my attraction to you."

Another obscenely high-pitched laugh bursts out of Dean unbidden, and out of guilt and embarrassment he looks over to meet Castiel's eyes – mistake. Castiel's eyes fly wide, dark and honest and still a little blurred with drink. Dean swallows hard, tongue darting out reflexively to wet his lips; Castiel's gaze drops to follow the movement.

"Yeah," Dean says loudly, stumbling over his words. "No – I mean, like... don't worry about it!" He lifts a hand to pat Castiel's shoulder or push him playfully over, but freezes halfway and falls. He scratches the back of his head to cover the move. He clears his throat. "I'm just – uh, flattered, you know. Like, come on. Body like mine? Happens all the time? Like, on a daily basis, almost."

Castiel shoots him a quizzical look. "Does it?"

Dean stares back, a hot flush building on his ears and neck. "Uh. Yeah. Totally."

They mount the sidewalk curb off the beach back up to camp. They're walking in sync, which Dean hastens to change when he notices. Not that he's paying attention to that sort of shit. Nocturnal insects creak and burble, moths collecting feverishly around the dulled lampposts that lead the way back in. Sea breezes scatter biting bugs through the trees before they can land, leaving an intangible screech of wings, high and frenetic. Dean's pulse is a rage under his skin.

"So... I guess you like pina coladas?" Dean blurts out, in search of something – anything – that will fill the deafening silence so that Dean can't hear his blood like a tattoo in his skull, a roar of something like want.

Castiel glances over. "Sorry?"

"You know – you wanted to try them, just to see if you liked them, and then you had like four..." Dean trails off awkwardly.

"Three," Castiel corrects absently. "Plus a raspberry woo-woo. Yes, I did enjoy them... the pineapple was particularly refreshing."

Dean gives a short laugh. "Oh, well, that's good – because now you'll have-" Dean begins to process what his mouth is saying and decides, too late, that it isn't the best idea he's ever had:"-better-tasting... uh. Semen." His face is burning. "Which is... a good thing, I guess."

Shit. This conversation is rapidly spiralling out of control. Maybe the idea of filling the silence was stupid.

_You just brought up the flavour of his semen,_ Dean reminds himself silently.

Yeah, definitely stupid.

They pass the bicycle hut quietly, both staring intently ahead. The housing block rises in front of them, dim squares of light cutting out silhouettes of bodies above them. Their hands accidentally brush as they round the corner; Dean trips over his words trying to apologise, and then actually trips.

Castiel reaches out instinctively to steady him, fingers curling warmly around his arm. "Listen," he says bluntly, staring Dean down with that solemn, no-nonsense set to his jaw. "Just – forget I ever said anything. Alright? I'm sorry, I am – but please, just... forget about it."

Dean means to brush this off as well, to joke and screw around until Castiel gives up and leaves it alone, but that's not what happens. "Bullshit," Dean cuts in, and the words that are meant to sound harsh instead find their way to Castiel soft and plaintive. "Bull_shit_, Cas. I know you. You plot and you plan and you know the consequence of absolutely everything - and you never stop reminding of that, every damn time I'm thinking of doing something dumb – so don't you tell me that you didn't know what would happen when you told me – _that_."

At some point in that speech, Dean realises that he has grabbed Castiel by the shoulder and is shaking him; Castiel squirms to get free, pink flush rising from his collarbones. "Dean – I didn't mean to-"

"You meant every damn word," Dean challenges, stepping right up into him, all at once relishing and hating the way Castiel jerks and blushes, stammering to form words, the way he blinks fast and his breath catches – Dean swears, "For fuck's sake, Cas-"

And then as Dean tips his head down to close that distance once and for all, Castiel's eyes suddenly flash over and beyond Dean, widening impossibly.

His hands lift and press hard to Dean's chest, shoving him violently backwards.

Dean gapes, trying to maintain his balance, and defensively rubs at his chest where Castiel pushed him. "What the-"

"What gives you the right-" Castiel says tightly, and he's shaking, "-to – to – Dean, I'm – I'm not – I would _never-_"

For a second, neither of them speak.

"Right," Dean says eventually, and he's not bitter but every inch of him is stinging with rejection and hot shame. He lets his hands drop to his sides, feeling physically nauseous with the humiliation of it. "_Right._"

"Dean," Castiel tries. There's a hollow, anguished depth to his eyes like he's being torn in half, but Dean won't look at it for more than a spit-second. "Wait-"

"Well, that's that, then." Dean gives a curt nod, and turns to slouch up the steps to the housing block, face burning.

Lights flicker in apartments up above; Dean wouldn't be surprised if someone had seen and thought to film that hideous fail of an attempted romantic gesture. It doesn't matter anyway, Dean muses sullenly as he stomps up the flights of stairs to his corridor. It's not like he's interested in Castiel anyway. He likes boobs and he's not gay and dicks are kind of scary to think about and he's got Lisa to focus on. Lisa – with tits and no penis whatsoever. He just needs to keep his damn eyes on the prize.

"Hey," Dean calls to Victor as he pushes in through their apartment door. He tries for a casual attitude. "That was some night, huh?"

Victor is just putting his toothbrush back neatly into his washbag, already scrubbed fresh for sleep. He looks up, grinning. "That was crazy, man. I mean – who even knew Gabriel could belly-dance? Jesus, and _Bela_. Hot freaking damn, but that's a body I could get behind."

"No way," Dean denies vehemently, yanking his shirt over his head and kicking off his shoes. "She's such a bitch! She'll eat you alive."

Victor laughs at that but agrees. Thankfully, he doesn't even mention Castiel, let alone prod Dean for some sort of emotional reaction like Jo and Sam inevitably would. He lets Dean get changed without bugging him, and, ten minutes later, even offers to get the door when someone knocked.

Despite grumbling, "It's nearly in one in the morning – who the hell...", Victor good-naturedly opens the door. "Oh, hey! You okay?"

Dean is in the act of searching for his cell phone charger when he hears the low rumble of a response, which he recognises instantly. At this point, he's wriggling around under his bed in his search, and he quickly slides out and tries to dust himself off, conscious of his bright red face and the hundred-odd dust bunnies caught in his hair.

"Yeah, of course," Victor is saying from the front door. "Sure thing. Hang on." He steps away from the door. "Cas here for you, Dean."

"Oh, okay," Dean replies, very coolly.

He crosses to the door, exchanging a quick glance with Victor, who doesn't say anything but merely raises his eyebrows. Dean ignores it for now; he slips through the door and closes it gently behind him.

Sure enough, Castiel is standing in the corridor, looking every bit as pained and pink-cheeked as he had fifteen minutes ago. He shifts anxiously from one foot to the other; he fidgets with his hands.

"Can I help you?" Dean asks brusquely, still feeling too stung to play nice. It is only then that he becomes painfully aware that he is only wearing his flannel pyjama pants and an old Metallica t-shirt, which is awkward, but he blunders on. It doesn't matter. This is the part where Castiel tells him that it wasn't real, that he was just passing times, screwing everyone over – whatever.

Castiel takes a deep breath. "If you think I was going to kiss you in front of Zachariah's apartment, then you're even more stupid than I thought."

Dean stares at him. "What?"

"Man shall not lie with man as he does with a woman; it is an abomination," Castiel recites shakily. The nervous twist and pull of his hands together picks up pace; the pink flush under his jaw and up from his collarbones burns deeper. "Leviticus, 18:22."

"Cas," Dean says faintly, as though in a trance. "No-one's, uh, lying with anyone here-"

"I'm going to hell for this," Castiel says with conviction, like he's made his peace with the fact.

Then, without further delay, Castiel reaches up, takes Dean's face tightly in two hands to pull him down to the right height, and crushes their mouths together.

Dean makes a muffled sound of surprise against Castiel's lips, but there is no real heart in it, and Castiel is relentless – pushing and pushing, and Dean's back hits the corridor wall with a crash that is probably audible, but that's a concern for later. Right now there's the bruising grip at Dean's temples and cheekbones, the clumsy shove of Castiel's lips, the way he opens his mouth all teeth and tongue like he's never done this before because he hasn't. Dean responds in kind, letting Castiel in and keeping him there, chasing tongues and kissing messily like they're falling apart.

And then Castiel, for some stupid, stupid reason that Dean isn't really listening to, is letting go and stepping back – breathing heavy, flushed hot – and his words are spilling over each other like his brain is trying to get somewhere and catching stuck: "I'm sorry – I just – that's it now – we don't have to - that's the last time that'll happen-"

"Yeah," Dean agrees distractedly, hands already reaching forwards of their own accord to skim over Castiel's sides, grip him tightly by the hipbones and pull him back in. "Never again-"

Castiel's breath sticks in his throat as Dean drags him back until they're pressed together, one solid line, and kisses him hard.

Blood howls fast everywhere they touch, beating in Dean's skull like rock-solid punches, building urgently low in his stomach with every desperate slide and slip of Castiel's lips on his, every greed sweep of tongue. He clings to Castiel's hips like a lifeline, feeling his pulse flutter under his skin; Castiel's hands rest lightly on Dean's shoulders, before sliding up to cup the sides of Dean's neck, thumbs brushing his jawline and resting at the hollow below his ears. They kiss and kiss again; they hold on tight.

Dean licks over Castiel's lower lip and then bites down, one-third out of something he's seen in pornos, and two-thirds just because it makes sense, and a low noise rumbles up from the back of Castiel's throat, accompanied by a slight twitch of his hips to push harder into Dean – and now Dean can feel him, the thick bulge in Castiel's pants that nudges inside his leg for attention – and Dean rocks back into him, hips jerking. Castiel's fingers slip further, push through the short hairs at the nape of Dean's neck, and their mouths tangle hot and wet.

Then, with a great clatter, someone starts to open a door on the other side of the hall, and they spring apart, red-faced and dishevelled.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other, breathing raggedly, eyes flickering over wide eyes and tousled hair and swollen, parted lips. Dean gulps.

"So, uh," Dean says, and is embarrassed by the croak of his voice, at which Castiel smiles a little. "Yeah."

Castiel gives a short nod. "Yeah," he repeats.

"I'll, uh... I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

"See you," Castiel replies calmly, his face carefully blank as his eyes light up. "Goodnight."

"Yeah." Dean pushes a hand through his hair, trying to flatten it where it's been mussed by Castiel's fingers. "Okay. 'Night, then."

Dean fumbles behind him for the door handle as Gordon Walker comes out from the washroom, towel in hand. Castiel's eyes drop once to Dean's mouth, with the barest hint of a smile of his own lips before he turns away, and they return to their respective apartments.

Victor, when Dean gets back in, is already curled up under the covers with a book open.

"Yo," Dean calls. He glances across the mess strewn around his own bed and decides that continuing the search for his cell phone charger would be pointless, and better saved for tomorrow. He climbs through the piles of dirty clothes and flops down onto his mattress. "Lights out?"

"Sure." Victor folds the corner of his page over and tosses the book to the floor. "So what was all that about?"

"Uh." Dean punches his pillow into the right shape. "He asked if you could borrow some sunscreen tomorrow because he's all out."

"Oh. Okay. ...Cool."

Victor flips over and clicks his bedside lamp off, and Dean does likewise. They lie in the dark and try to lose themselves in sleep; Victor, with quiet snuffling snores, and Dean with the thought of Castiel and the calm self-assurance that nothing has changed.


	12. The One Where Everything Is Normal

**A/N: Sorry for the delay with this one – I've been on holiday and I'm also doing Camp Nanowrimo and the Dean/Cas Bigbang on livejournal so I've been busy doing all that too. The next updates shouldn't be too far away though!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Twelve**

**Week 6, Day +31**

Dean and Castiel don't act any differently. They go down to breakfast with Jo and Victor; they sit in the same seats, eat the same foods, talk to each other in the same way. Dean goofs around being an asshole and Castiel puts him in his place. Jo and Dean argue about something, only to have Castiel cut in with placating hands and dry sarcasm that makes them all laugh and forget what the problem was. They don't let their eyes linger; they don't let their hands touch.

The main event of the day, for Dean at least, is that it's changeover time, and today Sam is going back to Lawrence.

Dean hangs around Sam's cabin in the early morning, helping him pack and making fun of his dweeby clothes and books. Sam turns up his nose a little when Dean insists that they work to Motorhead, but he goes along with it – and although he'd never admit to it, he knows all the words too. They make a bit of an ass of themselves spinning around to air-guitar with Sam's dirty laundry in hand. but it gets the job done and they find themselves winded with laughter.

Jo, Victor and Castiel all help to take Sam's bags down to the lobby, lumbering like cart-horses, and reach the shuttlebuses only to have Missouri tell them in no uncertain terms that they're not allowed to accompany him to the airport.

"What?" Dean demands. "But how do I know he's even gonna get there okay?"

Missouri arches her eyebrows. "Well, no-one else has ever been kidnapped from the buses in the past decade I've been running this place, sugar, so I think he'll be just fine," she tells him.

Dean scowls. "There must be at least one empty seat on that damn bus. There _has _to be."

"Sorry, Dean," Missouri says firmly, and with that she begins to help some scrawny seven-year-old load his suitcase. End of conversation.

Dean whirls back around, jaw set with irritation. "This is such a load of crap," he rants, hands balling up into fists. "What the hell is her freaking problem? Why can't-"

"Dean, stop." Sam reaches for Dean's sleeve to tug him back to reality. "It's okay, dude. It's only an hour's drive!"

"How am I gonna know you even got on the right flight?" Dean snaps, bristling.

"I'd text you when I landed, that's how," Sam says patronisingly. "Don't worry, okay – Madison's flying back to Lawrence too, so I wouldn't be alone for a single minute, unless she went to the bathroom or something. Besides, you wouldn't have been able to come into the departure lounge anyway!"

Dean gives it one last shot. "You might get sick on the plane," he tries, pathetically.

Sam narrows his eyes at Dean disparagingly. "_You're _the one who hates flying."

Dean grumbles to himself, not feeling relieved in the slightest. "So what – am I just supposed to send you off right here and that's it?"

With a shrug, Sam says, "Guess so."

"Great," Dean mutters, uneasiness settling in his bones like a chill. "Okay."

Jo comes around from the back of the shuttlebus, smacking her hands together. "That's all sorted, then," she says brightly. She ruffles a hand playfully through Sam's hair. "Bags loaded. You all ready to go, short stuff?"

Sam nods. He gives her an awkward one-armed hug, saying his see-you-soons with the knowledge that she and Victor will inevitably be camping on his living room floor in Lawrence before the tan can even fade. Victor punches him in the arm and says that Sam'd better get back to email all those girls he picked up on camp, which Dean scowls at. Castiel, for whom this really is goodbye, hugs Sam tight and wishes him all the best.

Then a space is cleared expectantly, and Sam barely even has time to swing his backpack on before Dean wraps his arms around him in a hug that squeezes him until he cracks. Sam squirms a little but clings on, breathing soft and comforting into Dean's shoulder. Sam hasn't hit his growth spurt yet; Dean can still squish his baby brother in his arms like this.

"Don't die or anything, Sammy," Dean says gruffly, patting a hand firmly between his shoulder blades. "Be careful. And don't let anyone touch your bags!"

"I _know_," Sam says with an exasperated sigh. "I'll be fine. Promise."

"Well... okay."

Dean starts to let go, but suddenly Sam's arms tighten around him, keeping him still. Sam turns his head and says very quietly into Dean's ear, out of nowhere, "_If you haven't married him by the time you get home, I'm gonna disown you."_

Startled, Dean jerks away and stares at him. "What?"

Sam just gives Dean his most withering bitch-face. "Seriously." Then he grins, and hops onto the shuttlebus, pausing briefly in the doorway to look back and wave. "Bye, guys!"

"Everyone on, let's move it, let's move it!" Missouri yells and claps loudly to get everyone's attention. "You too, Sammy. Let's go."

Dean gulps. "Say hi to mom and dad for me – okay – bye, Sammy! See you later!" he calls as he watches Sam weave his way to a seat next to Madison. The bus roars to life, idling noisily for a good five minutes before actually getting going, and then it pulls away. Dean waves long after even the acrid exhaust smoke has disappeared.

He stays there a long time, until Jo gently touches a hand to his arm. "Come on, dipshit," she says with all her usual kindness. "Don't make us waste the whole damn day pining."

"I'm not pining," Dean says sourly, but follows her anyway.

They have a whole day ahead of them and a desperate need to take Dean's mind off Sammy's safety, so they head back to the housing block ad make some half-assed sandwiches to equip them for a really lazy attempt at a picnic.

Bottles of energy drink? Check. Bottles of energy drink? Check. Dumb hats and a backpack big enough to covertly abduct a small child in? Again, check.

Without so much as getting permission from any of the staff – as a sort of fuck-you to Missouri not letting Dean go to the airport, and also because it would take all the fun out of it – they set off on foot with the intention of getting as far from Camp Chiquita as possible in the time available to them. Should be fun.

The first horrifying thing that they discover is that it is _very _hot.

Tem minutes past the external security huts, Dean is already starting to wilt and complain. The sky is bright and clear, cloudless, stagnant, and the heat closes in as a sticky film on their skin. Jo strides confidently ahead, unintimidated by the long empty stretches of highway, and the boys follow weakly in the wake of her bouncing ponytail and insulting attempts at encouragement, only motivated by her insistence that they play the Anti-Association Game, at which Dean is usually quite good as a result of his inability to stay focused on any one topic.

The second horrifying thing that they discover is that Castiel, new super-fan of all music tuneless and repetitive, _genuinely_ likes the song Baby Got Back.

As they walk, sweat oozing from every pore like B.O-bearing ectoplasm, the already-unpleasant experience of walking long distances in this smothering humidity is enhanced by Castiel happily muttering to himself, "_I like big butts and I cannot lie..."_

"Jesus Christ, but who introduced you to music?" Victor groans as Castiel gets into the chorus with no sense of rhythm and a lot of enthusiasm. "This is awful!"

"Guilty as charged." Dean raises a hand, grimacing.

"Bet you never imagined this would happen, huh?" Jo teases, snatching off his baseball cap and fitting it backwards over her own head like a ten-year-old Pokemon dork, and then loudly joins with a double fist-pump and a, "_Uh – uh – BABY GOT BACK!"_

Castiel nearly beams at having his song choice approved by Jo, and they rap together for a while, gangsta moves and all, until Dean sacrifices an apple for the greater good by bouncing it off the back of Castiel's head. It's fine – Dean doesn't like apples anyway, plus the scowl that Castiel shoots him is priceless.

Dean relaxes in the knowledge is everything between him and Castiel – wall-slamming, aggressively-intense kisses aside – is still the same. Except, of course, the way that Castiel's eyes drop lower and lower to rake shamelessly over Dean's body when Jo and Victor aren't looking, but that's a whole other story.

**Week 6, Day +30**

The new kids come in vans and buses, spilling out over the tarmac like small, over-excitable bees, clad in too-big cartoon t-shirts and smeared in so much sunscreen that they all vaguely resemble the crap you find at the bottom of milk cartons past their sell-by-date. Watching from the shade, Dean, Jo, Victor and Castiel try to weed out the weaklings and the assholes, debating how douchey their groups will be this time, on a scale of one to ten. Dean and Castiel, by some wild, unfathomable and in no way Zachariah-related coincidence, have ended up in the sharing the eleven – which therefore means that they will share no session and end up scarcely seeing each other during working hours. Jo has ended up with sevens, yet again, with no other than Garth, her puppy-love super-stalker; Victor has the nines.

"Aw, man, look at that guy," Victor declares gleefully, pointing out a boy who is both overweight and sickly, and looks ready to take it out on anyone unfortunate enough to get in his path. "He looks like he'd kick your head in as soon as look at you."

"Or eat you," Jo cackles.

Castiel frowns. He disapproves of this game. "I'm sure he's a perfectly nice boy."

Dean splutters with laughter. "He's gonna kick your ass."

As Castiel scowls at him and begins to raise his voice in protest, authority calls over from the shuttlebuses, telling them all to get moving, meet their new groups and take them to their cabins. The four reluctantly drag themselves from their position in the shade of a young apple tree, agreeing as they separate to divide and conquer or die trying.

"Heya," Dean exclaims brightly to his new group – including, he notes with dismay, the Incredible Sulk, who he had been previously commenting on. "I'm Dean, and I'm gonna be looking after you for the next two weeks!"

"I'm Castiel," says Castiel with a softness to his low voice that Dean guesses is meant to reassure.

"Go easy on him," Dean tells the kids, slapping Castiel on the back with an enormous grin, and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "He's delicate."

Castiel shoots him a glare. "I'm not-"

"He's Robin; I'm Batman," Dean elaborates, and winks at the fat kid, only to receive a stare like the guy would like nothing better to kill him by suffocation a la giant porky ass-cheeks, "so try not to kick his butt to Mexico, okay? I need him – kinda fond of him too."

Dean tries to ruffle a hand patronisingly through Castiel's hair – but Castiel ducks and then suddenly his hand is a vice on Dean's wrist, yanking him backwards and twisting his arms around and up to press against his back like a police arrest procedure – and with a startled gasp, Dean is forced down onto one knee.

"Jesus-" Dean fights to escape, or at the very least swear and threaten Castiel with brutal bloody murder, but Castiel talks over him with all the calm nonchalance of someone discussing the weather.

"We'll basically be in charge of you during the daytime, taking you for some fun activities," Castiel explains, seemingly oblivious to the gaping expressions of awe as Castiel idly shifts his grasp on Dean's arm to hold him still. His fingers press light against Dean's pulse point. "We'll be mostly doing things like kayaking, survival skills, outdoor sports, and so on... How does that sound?"

Most of the kids respond positively, some still entranced by the sight of one of their leaders red-faced and squirming on the floor. Dean uses this opportunity to ask if he can get up, '_you fudging cockatee sherbet head_'.

Despite the cries of the tens who want to see Dean further humiliated, Castiel kindly lets Dean up. They head off to where the kids will be staying and Castiel is adamant there's no such thing as karma when he trips on a loose chunk of concrete and takes the skin off his knees.

**Week 7, Day +29**

No matter how Castiel tries to provoke the large, unhappy kid in their group into physical exercise, he ultimately fails. The kid, named Albert Oiseau, deliberately gave himself a nosebleed to get out of athletics earlier, and now is simply refusing to stand up for volleyball. From Dean's position, doing admin in the Water Sports Hut, it's pretty funny, but poor Castiel already looks pretty flushed and irritated. That kid really is a nightmare.

Dean turns his attention back to flicking through the old records of kayaks and boogie boards to see if any are reaching safety check necessary at the end of five years' ownership. It's riveting stuff.

"-and I don't know – I mean, don't you think that Anna spends a _lot _of time texting her boyfriend?" Bela is saying as she boredly pins up the new boat rental sheets. "It seems kind of clingy to me.

"Isn't he, like, twenty-eight too?" Meg is supposed to be on lifeguard duty but since no-one is in the water, she climbed down from her chair and is perching on the Water Sports counter to make bitchy chitchat. "Gross. He's probably bald."

"That could be hot." Bela arches her eyebrow and then twists around, smirking. "What do you think, Dean?"

"Well, you might look a little weird with no hair, Bela, but whatever makes you happy," Dean replies absently. He scans the last page of the 2003 folder and sets it back, ignoring Bela's tutting and laughing.

Dean looks over to the volleyball court. Jo, presumably having a free session after being dismissed from staff admin or something, has now joined Castiel's campaign on the sand to try and control the heavyweight asshole. Together they're pitching some idea to Albert which he seems to agree to, hauling himself up to play. Jo and Castiel both look infinitely relieved. Castiel, in particular, looks unusually frazzled and on the precipice of just plain smacking Albert; his hair sticks up in tufts and his shirt, dark with sweat, sticks to his skin in long solid lines.

Dean tears his eyes away and pulls out the ring-binder for 2004.

Dean thinks about Castiel more now – a lot, and in varying degrees of eroticism. Sometimes he thinks about his ticklish aversion to having his feet touched. Sometimes he thinks about the way he's trapped with his family, with his lifestyle, and what Zachariah would say if he knew about the time that Castiel pushed Dean into a door and kissed him breathless. Dean thinks about that time sometimes too – and other times, whenever they can snatch moments alone to press in close to each other and kiss and desperately clutch onto every inch they can get their hands on like they're starving. But only sometimes.

"-but what if you were allowed Beyonce's ass and not her overall weight? That, or Scarlett Johansson's face?"

"Oh, that's not fair," Bela complains, stapling together the last rental sheets to pin up. "Well, to be honest, with a face like Scarlett's, no-one cares what your bum looks like, so..."

Dean rolls his eyes. He notes down which three kayaks were checked in 2004 and puts the ring-binder back, and as he turns away, he wonders if he needs to start looking at buying a Wonderbra just from listening to this conversation.

Castiel and Jo have taken opposite sides of the volleyball court, dividing the kids into two for a proper game. Castiel is fast and fluid, all at once helping, explaining and directing, letting the mores shy kids take charge and the more athletic ones step back to give others a chance. Jo just bounces and shouts a lot.

Only loud cries of outrage snap Dean's attention from watching the fragile twist and flex of muscle as Castiel plays, and Dean glances over to Jo in bewilderment as she squawks and yells, "_YOU LITTLE-_"

Dean sees the problem instantly, from too many years of pulling this prank himself – she clamps one hand over her chest and the other gropes desperately between her shoulder blades for any hint of her bra-straps. Meanwhile, Albert lumbers about behind her, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Then Castiel is storming over, furious glare made slightly comical by the sunscreen spread in a solid white stripe over his nose and cheekbones. He gives Albert a few harsh words, jabbing a finger, before hurrying to Jo's rescue in order to do her bra back up.

"Jeez, Meg, how did you _not _realise he was gay?"

Dean jumps half out of his skin when he realises that Bela and Meg are right beside him, following his gaze as Castiel's hands fumble under Jo's shirt for the clasp of her bra.

"I mean, look at him," Bela continues snootily.

Unaware that he's being watched, Castiel carefully fixes Jo's bra and checks that she's not about to fly into a child-killing rage before marching off to have a sharp word with Albert, all without so much as a glance at her tits or ass – which is more than Dean can do, because childhood best friend or not, Jo's butt is incredible.

"Yeah, well, back then I didn't realise that he wanted to fuck the pool boy," Meg says acidly, and Dean doesn't turn around but he can feel her eyes burning into the back of his head.

Blushing hotly, Dean pretends not to have heard any of the exchange and instead focuses the 2005 kayak records file.

"So, are you gonna?"

Dean flips determinedly through the files, page after page after page. Just ignore them, he tells himself firmly. Don't rise to it.

"Hey, asshole – I'm talking to you." Meg raises her voice, bitchy and cold.

"Am I gonna what?" Dean asks dully.

"Are you gonna fuck him?" Meg asks, spitting the words out like poison she could take Dean down with.

Dean turns another page. He can feel the heat in his face, far too intense and painful to escape notice now; he can feel his blood thundering like a bass drum in his head, pounding for attention.

"_Well?_" Meg pushes, relentless.

Bela laughs. "Come on, Winchester, don't play coy with us – oh, unless _he's_ going to fuck _you_... is that it? Is that how it's going to work?"

"No," Dean snaps, losing his patience and just wanting the torment to stop. "Christ – just – no. I don't – I would never, okay? No!" Dean closes the ring-binder with an aggressive crack, glaring between the two girls. "Is that all?"

"A detailed report on what his dick feels like in your mouth would be nice," Bela replies airily, "but only if you feel you can multitask."

Dean has no reply; he pulls out the next ring-binder and hates everything about what he's becoming. And later, when Castiel catches sight of him under the hut's shaded roof and waves across the sand, Dean turns away and pretends he hasn't seen.


	13. The One With Too Many Closets

**WARNINGS: Porn. I'm just going to up front about it right now and say out-right that there is (admittedly mild) porn in this chapter. Prepare your anuses.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Week 7, Day +28**

It's a busy week, so the volunteers grab at any moments they can have together to have fun and chill out... which also means that there is never any time for a person to be alone, which therefore means that Dean is starting to feel a little frustrated and desperate. So sue him – he's sixteen and Castiel is cute and they have entered a sort of mutual agreement by which they snatch at each other and press close and greedy whenever they have a free millisecond, and it works out well. Except for times like this, of course, when milliseconds are hard to come by. Literally.

As a result, on a Tuesday afternoon, Dean is carrying a box of broken water sports equipment through to the offices in the lobby to be sent off for repair when he sees Castiel sitting by a low table, looking confused as he does admin, tapping something into an age-old desktop computer – and the office is empty – and Castiel has that little crease between his eyebrows and his mouth is pulled down all pouty with bewilderment – and Dean thinks, _yahzee._

He drops the box heavily onto a nearby desk with a loud crash that startles Castiel out of his reverie, snapping up to find the source of the noise, and his eyes fly wide with recognition and relief.

"Dean," he says warmly, a smile flickering across his lips – and then: "Dean?" again, wary and puzzled, because Dean is striding purposefully across the office and he isn't slowing down and he isn't saying a word and Castiel only manages to yelp "Dean!" one last time before Dean crashes into him, all mouth and hands and hips.

The wheels on his chair squeak in complaint and it rolls back to hit a nearby filing cabinet, rattling metal brackets and paper files, as Castiel cranes his neck almost one-eighty degrees to kiss back, Dean bent almost double to press into him, hands cradling the line of Castiel's jaw.

Castiel makes stifled hungry noises against him, but his hands hover awkwardly around Dean's shoulders, tapping him half-heartedly on the collarbone and the sides of the neck to try and push him off. "Mmpgh," he mumbles against Dean's mouth, squirming in his chair. "I - Dean – we can't – _Dean_ – get off-"

Dean makes an unintelligible noise of refusal and instead pulls Castiel closer still, biting down into the plush of lower lip until Castiel's mouth opens, dragging a low groan from the back of his throat, eyes fluttering closed –

And then there is a loud bang, and Castiel's eyes flash open and he curls two hands into the fabric of Dean's polo shirt to shove him away. Dean stumbles, and Castiel takes a moment to exhale heavily, running a hand forwards through his hair to flatten it, and then says pointedly, "Can you hand those papers in to Pamelaplease, _on your way out past Zachariah's office_?"

Dean follows Castiel's gaze to a heap of paperwork, and then, beyond that, to the door to Zachariah's office, where a group of staff bodies are assembled in conversation – backs turned to the transparent door, thankfully. He nods reluctantly. "Yeah," he says. "Sure."

They hold eye-contact and begrudgingly admit defeat – but _something _grabs a handful of Dean's ass on the way out and when he turns back, Castiel looks entirely too innocent seated at that computer.

**Week 7, Day +27**

No-one is really sure _what _sort of crazy life-or-death situation the staff of Camp Chiquita are expecting their kids to end up, but the ratio of survival skills sessions to all other sessions would imply that it's general belief that soon they'll all be parachuting out of planes to land in the Rockies and skin wolves with their bare hands. Frankly, Dean's more than a little sick of teaching children of various ages and behavioural problems to set up rabbit-traps and start fires and find water and use a compass, and he's tempted just to let them die in the wilderness.

However, as he and his elevens traipse through the woods to the allocated space for survival skills sessions, with tent-canvases and Swiss army knives all laid out in little cotton packages for use, Dean catches a glimpse of Castiel nearby, picking up trash with a long-handled metal point. Well, he'd be picking up trash if he was actually succeeded to get any with the point - partly due to incompetence with the metal point, but mostly because he seems much more preoccupied with sneaking glances at Dean while he's working. At one point, their eyes meet, and a flush creeps up Castiel's cheeks, embarrassed to have been caught, and Dean decides that he can definitely have fun with this.

"So, the first thing I'm gonna teach you today," Dean declares to his elevens, gesturing for them to form a semi-circle around him, "is how to make a fire _without _matches or a flint and steel or anything. I'll warn you now – it's difficult as hell, and it's much better if you just aren't dumb enough to get stranded in the wilderness without anything you can use to start a fire, but one day you might need this, so sit down."

They huddle around him, leaving a little space where his tools are assembled for the lesson in fire-starting. Dean arranges his bark and moss the way he wants it, and then lifts a stick to explain the type and style of wood that is best to use.

"Basically, we're going to twist the stick in our hands to try and build up enough friction between the stick and the bark that it heats up the moss until it catches fire," Dean explains, choosing his wood and weighing it in one hand. "It's a pretty easy concept but it takes quite a lot of effort... just remember, though," Dean adds, noticing that Castiel, on the other side of the trees, has suddenly grown still, listening. Their eyes collide, and this time neither of them look away; Dean finishes coolly, "that it's all about the friction."

Castiel shifts a little. He turns away and impales an empty packet of chips with what seems like much more force than is strictly necessary.

"So once you've got the right wood, just prop it straight up against the bark," Dean narrates as he does so, lining the stick up. He raises his voice a little. "If you can find a hole to push it into, then that's even better... that'll hold it still so that you can really build up all that friction..."

Castiel's attention is caught again.

"Oh – but if you're finding the wood too hard and it's starting to hurt, you can take off some of the bark on the outside to allow for a better grip," Dean says kindly, looking around at the kids as he moves his hands on the stick. He points with one hand to the other to show them what he means. "See, if you just rub up here with your thumb, then that should work best..."

He's half-hidden behind the trees, but Dean could _almost_ swear he sees Castiel awkwardly adjusting his khaki shorts.

"But then you can get to business!" Dean continues. "Just push in hard and twist... you've got to get it really hot." Dean's gaze flickers to Castiel's, heavy and teasing, and he arches his eyebrows. "Oh, hey, Cas!" he calls, feigning surprise as though he has only just noticed him.

Castiel looks over, startled. His eyes flash over Dean's face, his hands, linger a split-second too long on his mouth before lifting back to his eyes. "Yes?" he calls back apprehensively.

Dean jerks his head in the direction of the elevens crowded around him. "I'm teaching them how to start a fire – got any advice?"

Castiel approaches, beating the end of his metal point against the dirt thoughtfully. "Hmm." He comes to stand next to where Dean is sitting and for a few seconds doesn't speak, just drawing circles in the grass with the toe of his sneaker. Then, he says something that Dean does not expect: "Well, I'd just say to remember to keep a tight grip on the wood so that it doesn't slip... and then you can really grind down hard." He quirks an eyebrow at Dean. "Wouldn't you say?"

Absolutely gobsmacked, Dean's mouth hangs slightly open, eyes wide, and he can't think of a single thing to say in response to that.

He doesn't seem to need to; Castiel goes on by pointing at one of the girls in the front and says, "Why don't you have a go at it, Ava? Impress everyone – see if you can make Dean go weak at the knees. Although, to be honest, I think I've already shown you all that it's fairly easy to get Dean on his knees... and from there," Castiel pauses, lifting his eyes calmly skyward, and then says gently, "you can do just about whatever you want with him."

And that's just _it_ – Dean can feel his heart beating impossibly fast and his mouth drying out like old crinkled newspaper and there is a pounding in the pit of his stomach which means he needs to change the conversation or the entire scene or he is going to be pitching an extremely awkward tent and _wow_, boners move fast when you don't want them.

"Okay!" Dean says loudly, clapping his hands together and climbing to his feet so quickly that he kicks over his neat arrangement of sticks. "Everyone pair up and get to practicing – first group to start a fire gets a bag of marshmallows!"

As the kids scuttle off looking for wood and moss, Dean rearranges the front of his shorts – and punches Castiel hard in the shoulder for giggling wheezily at him. He'll get his own payback soon enough.

**Week 7, Day +26**

"This way!" Dean urges, plucking at Castiel's sleeve to pull him in the opposite direction. to the one he has heading, and Castiel obediently turns tail to follows him to hurry silently the other way down the long corridor of the camp maintenance building.

God only knows who decided it would be a good idea for the volunteers to gang up for some _bonding _and _together-time_ during one of their extended lunch-breaks, because someone ended up suggesting Extreme Hide And Seek – just like regular Hide And Seek, except that if you get found, you get made to take all of the toilet duties until the end of camp, which doesn't sound thatbad until you remember that it includes staff toilets, and Chuck Shirley eats a _lot _of mixed-bean tacos – and now everyone has fallen into full-tilt chaos and anarchy running to escape.

Dean and Castiel's footsteps slap and ring against the hot linoleum as they run, heads whipping from side to side as they seek out a place to hide.

"Look," Castiel says, hand nudging Dean's elbow as he points at a rickety wooden laundry basket big enough to fit a person inside. "There – I can-"

"There's no way I'm gonna fit in there!" Dean exclaims, immediately dismissing it, and he grabs Castiel's hands to tug him along to find somewhere else.

"Dean," Castiel says, jogging lopsided as Dean conveniently forgets to relinquish the grip he has on his hand, "we don't have to hide together, you know-"

Dean doesn't answer this; he just tightens his fingers around Castiel's and runs faster. There is the sound of their breath, cutting short and ragged the further they go; the clatter of doors and the pounding echoes of footsteps in other hallways, other stairwells – they're being followed – they're losing time.

Then, out of nowhere, there is the rattle of doorknobs and the squeak of wood over swollen door-jambs _ahead_ of them, and they realise that somehow they've been surrounded.

They turn to look at each other, eyes wide, and then Castiel's eyes slide past Dean to something else, something that makes him gasp, "There!"

Spinning, Dean finds a door, thank God – they trip over their own feet in their haste to get inside, clicking the door closed behind them, and they find themselves in a fresh laundry closet. It's dark, the only light being what filters under the door in a narrow pale strip, and Dean bangs his shin on a low shelf of towels; he hisses _"Shit!"_ under his breath before Castiel can reprimand him with a punch to the arm and a whisper to be quiet.

With a great effort not to fall over anything or put an eye on the face-level wooden shelves of bed-sheets and pillow-cases, they push further into the darkness, arms and shoulders pressed close together, until they find a small space beside a warm, rumbling water-boiler where they can stand up straight without hurting themselves on random bits of shelving. There they fall quiet and still, and settle in to wait to be found.

As his eyes slowly adjust to the gloom, Dean looks over at Castiel and finds the soft line of a smile there. When Castiel notices that he's been watching, the smile grows into the short huff of a laugh, and he shakes his head.

"What?" Dean whispers.

Castiel tips his head up to look into Dean's face and says jokingly, "We've got to stop spending so much time in closets."

Dean laughs at that, probably louder than he should have, and Castiel leans forward to cover the noise with his mouth. However, the more kisses that Castiel touches to his lips, the more Dean feels the choking need to laugh until he has to bend and push his forehead into Castiel's shoulder, shaking with giggles.

"Be quiet, Dean," Castiel whispers to him, trying his hardest not to smile; he presses his face into Dean's hair. "They'll hear us."

"Let them hear," Dean declares, lifting his head. His nose brushes Castiel's on the way up, and their grins are rival. His breath is a rush over Castiel's face as he adds, "I don't care."

"Yes, you do," Castiel corrects softly. He tilts his head up so that his nose nudges at the bottom of Dean's chin, and he stretches to shush him with a sound and a kiss.

This time, the press and move of his mouth is different; there is more intent there, more depth, more want. Hands drift up to rest lightly on Dean's waist. Castiel steps forwards, closing the last of the space between them, until their bodies are one long line from chest to toe – and even then, Castiel moves closer still, pushing his skinny hips into Dean's insistently enough that Dean is pinned back to the thin space of plastered wall between the shelves and the water boiler.

"Easy, Cas," Dean teases, the word a half-laughed mumble against Castiel's mouth. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

Castiel hums contentedly, and Dean can feel his lips curve into the smallest of smiles. "Is it working?"

Dean doesn't answer that. Instead, he lets his hands come up to curl around Castiel's neck and pull him stumblingly in. He feels like falling deep into his mouth all teeth and messy tongue and urgent snag of lips between the two, and hairs lift on Dean's arms at the small, needing noises rising in the back of Castiel's throat with every sweep and flick of Dean's tongue, every catch and pull of his lower lip. Castiel moves in slow, careful rolls, from his chest down to his hips, Dean echoing it – one, two, three – and there is the thunder of Dean's heart against his ribcage, the hot pulse of teenage desperation starting between his legs and low in his stomach and beating in his mouth like he could let it all out if he just clutched Castiel's face close enough, kissed him hard enough.

Smiling a little again at Dean's low noise of protest, Castiel pulls away, lips pink and shiny. His eyes flicker over Dean's face for a few seconds, taking in the parted, breathless mouth, the wide dark eyes, before gently nudging at the underside of Dean's jaw with his nose until Dean tips his head over to one side.

A shiver traces cold fingers up Dean's spine as he stands there, head tilted, waiting, and then – then, what seems like a decade later, there is the brush of the tip of Castiel's nose down the long, taut muscles of Dean's throat, followed by the light rasp of his lips across the skin, breath no more than a warm whisper.

"Cas," Dean tries, voice strangled. "What're you-"

Castiel opens his mouth, finds the nub of Dean's Adam's apple, licking over the shape of it, and when want rumbles deep in Dean's chest, an unbidden animal response, Castiel's lips slide lower to find the curl of Dean's shirt collar, and beyond that, the dark blood blotch on his skin where Jo had made a silly truth-or-dare claim – and there, where no-one will notice the ridges of a fresh bruise, he lays an aching bite that jerks Dean's hips instinctively forward, seeking solid warmth contact and pressing in hard when he finds it. Dean can feel the thick line of Castiel's wanting through his shorts, an urgent weight against Dean's own. As Castiel's lips glide possessively back up, Dean shoves a knee forward between Castiel's, and the height difference sees it pushed tight between Castiel's thighs, close enough that there's hot, frenetic contact and Castiel has no choice but to grind down hard.

There is now a desperate, claiming pound of blood through Dean's body, rattling in his skull, buzzing in his fingertips everywhere he touches, and, mostly importantly, pooling white-hot between his legs. Dean and Castiel lick and kiss and bite like each one is trying to own the other, a two-way battle—

But then Castiel wins, hands-down, because he takes the next step. He pulls back, flushed and breathless, chest heaving for oxygen against Dean's, and takes a moment of pause before murmuring, "Dean – can I – can I touch you?"

Already painfully hard, Dean's dick gives an involuntary twitch, hopeful and optimistic for skin and sweat or anything it can get, really; by contrast, Dean is frozen, mouth suddenly very dry. "What?" he croaks.

Castiel doesn't repeat himself. He just holds Dean's eyes as his fingers slip from Dean's waist to play nervously at the button and zip of his shorts.

There is a thick lump in Dean's throat and his breath cuts ragged; he roughly licks his lips, trying to think of something intelligent to say – or, failing that, any sort of human communication would be good – but he is lost in the light press of Castiel's fingers low on his abdomen, brushing against the skin of his stomach where his shirt rides up, and the intense, questioning gaze still fixed on him, waiting for an answer. "I – uh – have you-" Dean tries, his voice an embarrassing rasp. "Have you done this before?"

Castiel shakes his head, his teeth biting into the swollen plush of his lower lip. "Not to anyone else," he admits quietly, flushing a deeper red at the admission to touching himself – like he hadn't already made a public declaration of it, along with who he pictured while he was doing it – and the memory of that, suddenly echoing unbidden through Dean's brain, only serves to further reduce him to a trembling wreck of anxious virgin anticipation.

Exhaling shakily, Dean plays it cool, pretending that every fibre of his being is not currently thrown into desperately trying to keep still, trying not to buck up into the tantalisingly light pressure of Castiel's hand. "Yeah – yeah, okay," he says casually. No big deal. "Sure – uh, if you want – I mean – yeah – knock yourself out, I gue-"

"Dean," Castiel interrupts, and he curls his fingers behind the waistband of Dean's shorts so that he is stilled and silenced, and then Castiel leans forwards to kiss him, fierce and deep and demanding, and Dean lets him do whatever he wants.

Not letting up the kiss for a single second, Castiel's fingers fumble blindly with the buttons and zips of Dean's clothing – and then suddenly his khaki shorts are falling to crumple around his ankles and Castiel shoves his hands unceremoniously down the front of Dean's boxers. He finds him there – hot, flushed, hard as the day is long, and strung so tight that the first skittish brush of fingertips snaps Dean's hips violently forwards. Castiel chuckles a little at the low whine when that hand falls away, but, staying fixed on Dean's eyes, he lifts a hand and licks a wide, wet stripe across his palm.

The sight of it, of Castiel's tongue darting out and catching in the creases of his palm, weakens Dean like a punch and he swears he can feel the vertebrae in his spine trembling for collapse as he sags against the wall behind, knees shaky. "Cas-" he tries again, suddenly nervous and fearful of getting too much of what he wants all at once and whether he's going to be able to handle it. "Cas – wait-"

-but that's all the time that Dean has, because Castiel's hands is suddenly wrapped around Dean's cock, thumbing lightly under the head, and Dean falls under in a snagging gasp of breath and an embarrassed, uncontrolled jerk of hips and knees and drifting hands. His head tips back to rest against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut as he hit with hot sharp pulses of pleasure and want that shudder through his every nerve like an atomic blast; he presses his hands flat against the wall behind him, partly out of an uncertainty of what else to do with them, and partly in the hope that doing so might hold him up through the careful slide and pull of his cock through Castiel's fist.

Castiel is determined, relentless, picking up pace, his thumb sweeping up the underside of the shaft with every jack and twist, and Dean's losing any hope of coherency that he may have maintained – words spilling out breathlessly, thoughtlessly, over his tongue – "Cas, Cas – shit – I – I, ah – fuck - oh wow – okay – _fuck_-" until Castiel presses into another kiss, sucking bruises to the back of his throat to silence him, but it doesn't stifle the filthy groan that rises at Castiel's free hand shyly knuckling at Dean's balls through the sweat-damp material of his boxers.

Slowly, slowly, Dean can feel that he is coming apart. He twists his hands brutally tight into Castiel's hair to keep him upright, kisses fast and sloppy, bumping teeth and pulling back frequently to just press their foreheads together, to gasp and pant into the open wetness of Castiel's mouth. He relishes the tell-tale signs of Castiel falling the same way – the way he breathes rough and high and heavy, the way he still shoves urgently forwards to press the weight of his own hardness into Dean's mostly-bare thigh, the way he groans against Dean's lips when Dean curls his fists a little harder into Castiel's hair, the way he gasps out _Dean _like a prayer.

They're both rocking into each other, too completely wrecked to even kiss; Dean presses his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, holding tight through the shift and pull and the teasing scrape of fingernails at the base of his cock, the sweep of the pad of his thumb over the slick of pre-come at the tip, the nudge and tug just under the shiny swell of the head – and Dean is shuddering, near-painful desire and desperation leading him to fuck abortively into Castiel's hand, breaking up the steady rhythm – but he doesn't care, he just jerks up and forwards and forwards and forwards and-

"Cas – Cas," Dean is trying to gasp out, shoving his face further into Castiel, pushing home into the hollow below his ear and pressing his wet, open mouth against the skin. "Cas – I can't – stop, I can't – I'm gonna-"

"It's okay," Castiel says, with more than a hint of urgency in his own tone, like he needs it too. The fingers of his free hand dig hard enough into the cut of Dean's hip to leave marks there. "It's okay – Dean – I've got you." The grip on Dean's hip slows him, holds him still and trembling as Castiel picks up speed and presses his thumb lightly to the tip and then-

"_Cas_," Dean groans, one last time – and then his vision is whiting out at the edges and he's shaking apart and biting a long, wordless sound into Castiel's throat and he comes harder than he ever has before.

_Fuck_, he thinks through the haze, hands uncurling lazily out of Castiel's hair, because this is going to be messy by any standards, and they're fully dressed and in a godamn supply closet, but he then realises that at some point Castiel has been simultaneously very nifty and an absolute bad-ass and stolen a nicely-laundered pillowcase from a shelf to catch all the evidence – and at some point, Castiel has also unzipped his own shorts, and Dean sees the a flash of his cock disappearing inside the curl of his already-slick fist before Castiel slams their mouths together, gasping and hungry, and he's barely jacked five times before he's seizing and muffling a short cry against Dean's lips and dissolving spineless in Dean's hands.

For a minute or so they merely stand together, breathing hard, pressed close together.

Finally, Dean breaks the silence by rasping, "Shotgun not sleeping on that pillow-case."

Castiel bundles it up in one hand as though to throw it at him, but his fingers come up sticky, so he seems to think better of it. "Yeah," he says awkwardly. "We should probably... just... hide that." He tucks himself back into his shorts and lays the crumpled pillow-case solemnly in the corner of the closet, hidden underneath the water boiler, and then turns back to Dean.

He's flushed pink and heavy-lidded and still breathing hard, and his lips are swollen to shit, his hair sticking up wildly in every direction, and in that moment he looks so hopelessly endearing that Dean can only lean in and touch the lightest of kisses to his mouth. "You're so dumb," he says, laughing a little as he tries to flatten Castiel's hair. "Sorry about this."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, it's... more than alright," he replies, smiling languidly.

They kiss a couple more times, slow and easy, before Dean grunts, "We should probably see what happened to everyone else. We've... been here a while."

"Oh, gosh," Castiel exclaims, eyes widening. "I forgot about the game – Dean, we've been missing for ages!"

Hastening to fix their clothes and hair and roughly-bitten mouths, they emerge out from the corridor, Castiel fretting about discovery, and Dean reassuring him, "Don't worry – no-one will have noticed, I promise."

Well.

"Yeah, we noticed," is the first thing that Victor says when they find him and Jo sprawled under a tree outside, so that shows how much Dean knows, and Castiel shoots him a scowl. "Dude, you missed the whole game. We all gave up looking for you and just told everyone that you'd been caught by The Bearded Wonder to do some extra admin."

"So, uh," Jo says coolly, "are you ever going to tell us when you started rampantly fucking – or are we just gonna sort of work backwards from now and figure it out ourselves?"

Dean splutters for oxygen; Castiel turns red, and the scowl directed at Dean deepens into a full-out baby-killing glare.

"We're not – I mean," Dean attempts to rectify the situation, smiling brightly. "Okay. This is pretty bad. But we're not actually _fucking_, specifically."

Jo stares him down, sceptical. Victor just looks like he's trying really hard not to laugh. Dean figures that should be enough, but he can feel Castiel fidgeting uncomfortably at his side, so clearly more needs to be said to clear the water.

"I don't know – we're sort of a... thing, I guess?" Dean says uncertainly, glancing at Castiel for validation, but conveniently enough, the dumb bastard is just staring straight down at his feet. "But we're not – I mean, like – you know. We're just kind of... happening." This isn't going well, as far as concise and explanatory statements go. He tries a different approach. "We didn't tell you because... well, obviously, you might understand why Castiel isn't overly keen on the idea of having it spread around."

Dean doesn't say any more than that. He doesn't say that he doesn't want it spread around either. He lets the guilt all hang on Castiel's shoulders, like Castiel is holding them back from a Big Gay Love Adventure, because that's easier than explaining that Dean didn't want to tell them because... well, just because.

With a long, suspicious _hmm, _Jo only narrows her eyes and says, "Okay. Fair enough." She huffs her breath out and tugs her Chiquita camp lower over her brow, and that seems to be that from her.

Victor, on the other hand, sinks back to lean on his elbows in the grass and sighs, "Well, now that's over, can I just say – thank fucking _God_, finally!"

"Holla," Jo adds, lifting her hands in a little raise-the-roof movement, and when Castiel and Dean give them identical expressions of bewilderment, she explains, "Jesus, you've only been making gooey-faces and sex-eyes at each other since you first got here! I was starting to consider just locking you two in a room until you jumped on each other's dicks and got it over with."

Startled, Dean and Castiel share a frown as though to confirm whether this is true, but can't find any answers in each other. Castiel shrugs first, because by this stage it's not really a secret that he's had an obscenely huge crush on Dean for the past seven weeks, which Dean is still trying to wrap his head around, but they both drop into the grass to stretch long and lazy alongside Jo and Victor.

They tell stupid jokes and make up idiotic songs about the size of Zachariah's ass as he saunters down a nearby sidewalk, scowling to himself but remaining oblivious to their antics, and blissfully oblivious to the warm curl of post-orgasmic contentment inside Dean and Castiel's bellies, and that's the best victory of all.


	14. The One With PDA And Blood Tests

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Week 7, Day +25**

More than ever, it seems the hours are long and the days are short and the sun moves all too fast in slipping down through the blue, past the glittering wheels and spindles of fun-fair rides on the Alben pier, and then it's sunset and the promise of tomorrow being just as exhausting and finite as the day before.

The Fabulous Four, as Jo has recently nicknamed them, sit on the edge of the pier - arms looped through and around the metal bars holding them back from the eight-foot drop into the Gulf of Mexico, legs dangling freely in the air – and throw pebbles collected from the beach earlier at fat, hovering seagulls nearby.

"If I died and was reincarnated as a seagull," Victor comments as one particularly nimble gull wheels away from the cascade of stones and soars upwards on a breeze, "I think I would just drown myself on principle."

"I think it would be nice to fly," Castiel says, clinking two pebbles together in his palm. He is only throwing his stones _past _the gulls – he's too nice for anti-avian violence and he likes to see how far into the distance he can get them

Dean snorts. "They don't _fly,_ Cas – they propel themselves upwards on all the methane farts leftover from stealing other people's fries."

Castiel huffs a short laugh and tips his head over to one side to lean on the railing. "I'm sure that flying would feel the same regardless of the method used," he says softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling against the glare of the sunset on the water.

"How romantic," Jo teases him gently, and she grins at him before hurling the last of her pebbles into the sea.

They haul themselves up and make their way along the wooden-slatted pier to the soundtrack of screaming children on the dodgems and a repetitive playlist of bad dubstep thumping over the funfair stereo.

Victor buys a corn-dog, apparently too hungry to even make it to Singer's for their usual icecream, and Castiel experimentally tries a fluorescent blue slushie – because, since deciding that sugar is good for him after all, he seemingly wants to cram all sixteen years' worth of lost sugar into one summer. He slurps it down fast and then almost crumples onto the sidewalk when brain-freeze comes and takes him down like a metallic slap to both temples; he can do nothing but sit on the side of the road groaning that he's dying, and the others can do nothing to help him for laughing so hard.

As a result, Castiel sulks when they get to Singer's and doesn't want any more cold food, and so, much to Bobby Singer's disappointment, doesn't order an icecream. That's not to say that it stops him from sneaking his hands along the table to try and steal some of Dean's though – and Dean, kind-hearted gentleman that he is, promptly smacks the backs of Castiel's knuckles with a spoon and tells him sweetly to _fuck off and get your own._

"Aww, sweetie, you can have some of mine," Jo offers from the other side of their booth, extending her spoon towards him – and Castiel shoots Dean a look as if to say, _see, I like her better_, in response to which Dean merely cocks his eyebrows to get across the message, _well, good luck with persuading _her _to get you off._ Castiel understands perfectly; he scowls.

The crinkled posters pasted up all over Alben declare the imminent arrival of The Horror of Slorr 4 and promise "_more grime, more gore... MORE SLORR!_", which, to Dean, Castiel, Jo and Victor, is an offer they couldn't refuse if they tried.

They run down, bikes clattering on the flagstones and mouths still-shiny from Singer's ice-cream, and buy the first tickets of the evening.

However, as they collapse into the folding padded chairs of their choices, the main doors screech open again and in waddles a wide-set old man squinting like he can't see the world past the end of his nose, accompanied by a scrawny young boy glaring like he can see for miles and hates everything he's laid his eyes on – but either way, that's Jo's cue to elbow Dean sharp in the stomach to shut up his bellowing debate with Victor as to whether there were any other animals in the natural world with kinks and fetishes, or whether only humans were into BDSM.

Unluckily, by this point, the intruder is already scowling blindly in the direction of their voices, with the pint-sized gangster at his elbow seeming to decide that his next vicious murder spree is going to be a hat-trick; only Castiel, sitting very innocently off to Dean's left and thoroughly engrossed in a tub of toffee popcorn, is exempt from the child's ocular laser beams of death.

"Stay still," Dean whispers conspiratorially, freezing in his seat. "Its vision is based on movement."

"Hey, I'm okay," Victor reminds them smugly. "Once the lights go out, I've got natural camouflage!" – and he only laughs when Jo threatens to paint fluorescent stripes on him.

"We could always use Cas as a decoy," Dean suggests, twisting back to grin devilishly at him. He wiggles his eyebrows. "Make him blush, light him up, and send him out into no-man's-land as a human sacrifice?"

As Jo can be heard complaining that she doesn't want to imagine how Dean would '_make Cas blush'_, Castiel frowns, eyeing Dean askance over his popcorn, and, wanting no part of their misdeeds, tries to back away from his grabby hands and comically-puckered lips.

"PDA, PDA, PDA!" Victor squawks belligerently, earning him a glare and a fierce _sshhhh!_ from Gandalf the Grumpy in the front row.

"No fucking in the back row!" Jo joins in and wags a finger at them.

"We're not!" Dean says exasperatedly, trying for the umpteenth time to explain. "Look, I can promise this – you will never have to worry about gross displays of affection from us. We're just not like that – no hand-holding, no snuggling... and no godamn _fucking_." But then, unable to resist the allure of embarrassing Castiel, Dean smirks at him and adds, "Just a couple of explosively good handjobs, right, Cas?"

Sure enough, Castiel instantly flushes a bright, mortified red and he buries his face in his hands as Jo howls with evil, cackling laughter. Victor, on the other hand, falls back in his chair, groaning, "Oh, Christ, but you and Cas and _explosive handjobs _were a handful of words I never wanted to think about all in the same sentence..."

"And thus," Jo says solemnly, clasping her hands together in a parody of prayer, "the Lord God created a mighty fountain of jizz that rained down upon them all from the heavens... and so it was, and the Lord was pleased-"

"And it was good," Dean chimes in, provoking from Victor another high-pitched keen of anguish and horror.

The small boy at the front of the room spins in his seat to fix them all with a hostile stare to rival that of the Eye of Sauron; then, without a moment's hesitation, he reaches over to tap the old man on the shoulder and tattle in his ear – which means it's inevitably T-minus-ten to a serious verbal beating.

"Shit," Dean says in an attempt to warn the others. "Look out-"

"I hope you all realise," the old man swivels to say, his voice snooty and nasal in the echoing room, "that if you continue to be disruptive in this way, I can report you to the owner of this establishment and have you thrown out!"

Jo sits up straight, planting her hands solid on the seat in front of her and is raring to let rip when Victor grabs her arm and hauls her back.

"Sorry, sir," Victor calls. "We don't mean to cause any trouble... we'll keep quiet from now on, and I hope you enjoy the film."

The enemy huffs angrily but seems to have no response to this; however, temporarily appeased, he sits back down and turns to face the front.

As the lights begin to dim and then fade out altogether, the first of many bad commercials flickering over the screen, Castiel leans over, his fingers an anxious twitch on his arm-rest, and says, "I wouldn't mind doing that stuff, you know."

"Doing what stuff?" Dean asks, distracted by the adverts and by his quest for extra-crunchy popcorn in the depths of Castiel's tub.

"Well," Castiel hesitates for a second, fidgeting with a loose thread on the pocket of his shorts. "Holding hands and things like that. I mean, not where Zachariah could see, obviously... or anyone who might tell him, for that matter, so I understand that it's not really a possibility – but, if we _could _do that, the hand-holding and the snuggling, that is, then... then I wouldn't mind."

Startled, Dean looks up and sees that Castiel, who had previously been determinedly staring down into his popcorn, is now gazing over at him, eyes wide and painfully honest, the crease between his eyebrows and the scrunch at the end of his nose the dead giveaway as to his fear and uncertainty, and the full weight of Castiel's feelings hits Dean like a freight train.

Castiel doesn't just want fooling around in closets and dumb sex jokes; he wants commitment and ownership and fully-fucking-fledged homosexuality, and that is so much more than Dean can give him. The very thought of it sends sharp pangs of nausea through Dean's gut – a little like first-love butterflies are supposed to be, maybe, if butterflies grew tentacles and four rows of teeth and morphed into freaking Cthulthu and wanted to take you home to meet its _family _– and maybe it's not a bad nausea, maybe it's okay, maybe it's just worry and want and the memory of Cas' mouth on his – but Dean is also abruptly aware of Jo and Victor, silent all of a sudden on his other side and listening intently, and of Grumpy the Dwarf and his prepubescent antichrist, and of the projectionist above their heads who could also be listening, and of the guy in the booth outside selling tickets, and of the woman they saw earlier walking her dog on the pier – and and and –

He doesn't know why he says it. After all, just because _Dean _is having an internal crisis twenty-four-seven doesn't mean Castiel has to feel the douchebag brunt of it... but Dean laughs, once, and he opens his mouth, and the words that come out are: "Jesus, Cas, we get it, okay – but you don't have to actually _act _so gay."

For a few seconds, Castiel doesn't say anything. Then, face completely devoid of any emotion at all, he says, "Yeah, I know – I was just saying, that's all" – but he presses his lips tight together into a flat line and Dean sees the hurt there.

There is an advertisement for Toyota roaring across the movie screen, and so Dean guiltily averts his eyes to that.

Silence stretches thick and stifling like warm treacle – probably not helped by the lack of functioning air-conditioning here. Dean's fingers drum agitatedly on his knees. Castiel's hands sits limp in his lap, popcorn forgotten. They breathe.

"Hey, Cas," Jo whispers, leaning over Dean to tap Castiel on the elbow. "Can you do me a _huge _favour, sweetie, and see if they've got any gummy worms down in the lobby?" She pulls a wad of ones from her pocket and presses a few into his palm. "Thank you!"

Castiel doesn't argue; he sets his popcorn down, climbs obediently out of his seat and descends the steps with a gait that could only really be described as a _trudge_. No sooner than he has rounded the corner out of sight, however, Jo draws back and punches Dean hard enough in the arm that his whole skeleton judders.

"What the hell?" he yelps, hand flying up to massage his dead arm.

"_You-_" Jo starts, but sees Satan Senior at the front frowning at the outcry, and hastily lowers her voice. "-are _such a moron!_"

Even Victor, who is notoriously ignorant of romantic etiquette, nods sagely. "Seriously, man."

"What now?" Dean demands, caught halfway between scowling and blushing furiously. "_What_?"

"I actually like Cas, you know," Jo hisses angrily, hair falling over her face until she looks absolutely deranged, "and I care about him even if you clearly don't! And god only knows he deserves better, but for some unfathomable reason he's decided that he wants _you, _and I'll tell you now, Dean Winchester, I will not sit idly by while you fuck him over with your stupid homophobic repression games, okay? I _will not._" She jabs him in the chest, hard. "You understand?"

Dean glances at Victor for moral support, but all the traitorous bastard has to offer is a slight shrug and a wince like '_sorry bro but she speaks the truth'._

Dean just grumbles, folding his arms across his chest and frowning down at the screen. He bets that the creepy old man in the front row is only that bitter and mean because he was similarly threatened into being queer when he was younger. It's a steep downhill slope from here to becoming a pensioner who takes delight in beating teenagers with his walking stick in a darkened movie theatre.

On the screen, the last of the commercials trumpets its final note and then everything goes dark for the opening credits – and there is a creak of doors opening which can only signal Castiel returning.

Jo lowers her voice even further until she is barely audible and grips the fabric of Dean's shirt, pulling him closer. "When Cas gets back, you are going to hold his hand or, so help me god, my foot will be so far up your ass you'll feel it in the back of your throat. Now _do I make myself clear?_"

Dean's eyes widen in dismay but he doesn't even time to protest because she has let go of him and he's falling back against his own arm-rest and Castiel is back, brow crinkled with suspicion at their whispering and shoving, a king-size bag of candy clutched in his hands.

"They didn't have any smaller," Castiel apologises, passing the bag over as he sits down. He is vehemently shushed by the antisocial assholes at the front and so he sits meek and quiet to watch the first scenes of Slorr awakening from the depth of the murky Baltic Sea.

There's a clip of some bubbles rising ominously from the deep, along with the melodramatic screech of violins. Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

A clawed, slimy hand rises from the darkness, clicking and thrashing wildly. A terrifying close-up ensues, and then the movie cuts to a pretty girl in a taxi somewhere in Berlin. Dean clears his throat and risks sneaking a glance at Castiel.

In the pale, buzzing glow of the projector just above them, Castiel is lit up like an vintage photograph; his face, set in vacancy and affected disinterest, is all sharp lines and edges. He doesn't even look like he's watching the film, but seems to be staring straight through it. _Damnit._

Dean takes a moment to chew his lower lip and inhale deeply for a sense of emotional stability, and then he just goes for it. He reaches over fast and snatches up Castiel's hand.

Castiel looks at him, surprised and more than a little reticent; his hand sits like a cold dead fish in Dean's palm. He doesn't speak but just stares Dean down, his face as calculatedly blank as it was before.

Trying his best to ignore the gratuitous German screaming in the background, Dean looks anxiously back at him. He flexes his hand over Castiel's. "Come on, man, you don't have to look so enthusiastic," he mumbles, feeling a little stung.

The response to that is not exactly what Dean had expected – Castiel tries to tug his hand away, muttering, "Dean, you don't have to-"

"Please?" Dean holds on tight, keeps him still. He swallows around a lump in his throat and shifts his fingers until he can lace them snugly through Castiel's, their palms pressed close and sweaty. "Please."

Castiel doesn't answer but – there – his hand curls a little to better fit against Dean's. He looks away and returns to resolutely watching the movie in front of them.

However, there is the tiny quirk of a smile on his lips, and Slorr 4 isn't all that funny, so Dean guesses that they're doing okay. And later, when the arm-rest between them is lifted so that Dean can sling an arm loosely around Castiel's shoulder and fit him against his chest, it isn't even prompted by violent threats, and that's okay too.

**Week 7, Day +24**

Saturday afternoon. 12.35pm. Dean is off cleaning a toilet somewhere and Castiel is trying to teach eleven-year-olds how to put up a tent like it's a covert military operation. They won't be surfacing any time soon for lunch and so it is just Jo and Victor on the beach, arms laden with cheesy paninis and condensation-cold cans of soda.

They have both been thinking about the same thing for a while now, but Jo is the one who brings it up first.

"Have you ever thought that if this whole thing – this whole camp, I mean – was a dumb rom-com or something..." she starts around a mouthful of chorizo and cheddar, "that we would probably end up together as well?"

Victor considers this. "Yeah, I guess. Although, more than likely, we'd try to kiss once and realise that it's basically incest."

"You would probably taste like my childhood," Jo agrees.

They gaze out to sea together, sunlight glinting fiercely off the crests of the waves and reflecting bright on the sleek fat bodies of seagulls. Somewhere in the distance, Chuck Shirley is singing tunelessly along to Bohemian Rhapsody. It's ninety-six degrees out and, all in all, there is a pretty weird vibe in the air, like anything could happen. It feels like a movie moment. They're probably going to lean in almost by accident and find themselves kissing and it feels perfect and magical and everything they've ever wanted, or something.

Victor looks over at Jo with a detached curiosity, no more involved than she is. "Do you want to get together then?"

Jo's nose crinkles distastefully. "Not particularly."

And that's the end of that.

**Week 8, Day +23**

Dean and Jo are sharing stable duty down at the Equestrian Hut just after lunch on one of the hottest days of the summer so far, with the exception of those few days when it wasn't even safe to be outside. They sit up on top of the counter where they can snag as much of the faint drifting breeze as possible – supposedly gluing the leather on broken saddles back together, but actually Jo is busy painting her nails red and Dean is just pushing the leather back and painting polka-dots with a brush and the bottle of glue.

"I don't think this is even working," he complains, slapping glue back and forth over the leather and trying in vain to press two sides together, to no avail. "What is the point in this shit?"

"There is no point in this shit," Jo replies idly, all her concentration being spent on the crooked nail on her little finger and the coating of red gloss that she's applying to it. "At this point, we are literally just waiting to die."

Dean throws the saddle down in frustration. "This glue is just a giant waste of my time. Can you get this to work?"

Stretching forwards from where she sits cross-legged, Jo takes the bottle of glue from him – swearing when she accidentally smudges one of her nails against the label, leaving a smear of red polish on the bottle – and peers at it. "This is PVA glue," she exclaims, giving Dean a disparaging look. "No wonder it's not working, dipshit – this stuff is reserved for papier-mache and stuff. You might as well be trying to fix those saddles with urine."

Dean lets his head drop into his hands. "Oh my Christ." He straightens up to take the bottle back and is exclaiming at the stupidity of the whole session, just sitting on their asses doing nothing, when he notices a crowd of children picking their way down the ravine towards the Equestrian hut, preceded by none other than Castiel.

The instant that Dean lifts his hand to wave, he is overwhelmed by the smell of his own armpit and is suddenly extremely conscious that it's about a million degrees Farenheight and that his body weight at this current point in time is probably more than eighty percent sweat. He drops his hand to the counter again, shifting where he sits and feeling the fabric of his shorts sticking to him like a damp second skin.

Jo chuckles to herself under her breath at Dean's anxiety and finishes painting her thumb before twisting around to greet Castiel. "Hi, Cas," she shouts. "How many horses do you need?"

"Twelve, please," Castiel calls back, but his eyes only flicker to Jo for a split-second before finding Dean again. His hair is damp from Water Sports and there's a dark scuff on one cheek where he's probably accidentally hit himself in the face with an oar and his uniform is clinging to him all sweaty and ragged, so he doesn't exactly look the picture of masculine beauty either... but he's flushed warm and pink from the heat and stern-looking as ever, the smile only present in the slight upwards tilt of his eyebrows, and Dean's everything swells almost to bursting with a feeling he can't name just at the sight of him.

"Hey," Dean says, grinning as Castiel comes close enough for actual conversation, leaving their shared elevens dawdling near the horse enclosure while Jo tightens the lid on her nail polish and hops down to grab some bridles. "What's up?"

"Not much." Castiel tilts his head a little as though considering recent events in order to correctly summarise how his day has been. "Although Albert is being particularly difficult today," he adds in an undertone, mindful of the hulking, angry boy less than ten yards behind them, "but it's nothing I can't handle,"

Dean hums sympathetically as he swings his legs over to climb down from the counter, but Jo, walking past with an armful of bridles and extra saddle blankets, coughs loudly and stops him.

"What?" he asks, tilted at an odd angle with his feet braced against the sides of the counter as he's caught in the middle of preparing to jump down.

And, weirdly, Jo strikes out in a random act of being the most beautiful human being ever, saying, "I'll take the kids out on my own. You and Cas have some admin to sort out, don't you?"

Frowning suspiciously, Dean goes along with it. "...Yes?" he tries.

"Alright, then." Jo nods, sorting out the few horses who are not already saddled and bridled, and starting to help the shorter, less equestrian-able kids up. "I'll see you guys in about... thirty, forty minutes?"

Dean is completely baffled by this sudden turn of events. Jo is supportive, of course, and she's Dean's best friend, but she has never deliberately acted in accordance with Dean's desire to get with anyone. It's strange, but he's certainly not going to question it.

Castiel, on the other hand, doesn't seem to share the same thought process. "Are you sure?" he asks worriedly, glancing across his eleven-year-olds like a fretting mother hen.

Jo rolls her eyes. "Cas, I've been riding horses since before you could read, okay? I'll be fine. Seriously." She gives the last of the kids a boost-up and then makes her way over to her own horse – although not before throwing a not-so-subtle wink at the two of them. "Catch you on the flipside."

Dean settles back on top of the counter, letting his legs hang down lazily as he watches Jo and the elevens carefully walk their horses out of the enclosure and off down the winding dirt path through the woods.

Then it's just Castiel and Dean left behind in a heavy woodland silence, far enough down the ravine that the chatter of life in the rest of Camp Chiquita doesn't reach them, and the hush of their contentment is only disturbed by the soft murmur of woodpigeons in the trees above them.

Dean swings his legs, the backs of his sneakers knocking against the counter with a _rap-rap-rap, _and the noise brings Castiel's attention back; he turns to face Dean, already hot and dishevelled from being down at Water Sports, and Dean can't help thinking that he could think of a few ways to build on that.

"What are you smirking at?" Castiel asks, eyes narrowing, but he takes one careful step and another and another after that until he's standing close to the Equestrian counter, nudging his way between Dean's knees, and the warm press of his body suggests that he might already know exactly the answer to his question.

"Nothing... I was just debating the existence of string theory," Dean replies smoothly.

"Of course." Castiel rests his hand on the surface of the counter – between Dean's legs and just close enough to the important parts that Dean's heart jumps into his throat – and Castiel fixes Dean with a withering look that says he's neither stupid nor willing in any way to pass up this opportunity. "String theory."

"Yep," Dean says brightly, and then Castiel stretches up on his tiptoes to find Dean's lips, to kiss the stupid jokes from his mouth – except Dean leans back out of reach and Castiel just flails below him, five-foot-six of flustered, scowling munchkin. Dean laughs. "Sorry," he teases. "Did you want something?"

He's expecting Castiel to tell him off or sulk or, better still, keep jumping and thrashing around trying to reach – but Castiel does something very different.

Castiel quickly moves his hands, slipping his palms under Dean's thighs before he can even work out what's happening, and then Dean is suddenly hauled forwards and _lifted_-

"What the fuck?" Dean yelps, half-terrified and half-impressed by Castiel's ability to pick him up bodily off the counter in some romantic chick-flick lift – and Castiel just wheezes his usual dumb laugh and tries to crane his head back to kiss Dean now that he's retrieved him from his height and superiority—but there's a rock or a root underfoot or Castiel's arms just give out and they're squawking and wobbling—

And then they both crash hard into the dirt, gusting up piles of leaves and dead grass, laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

Castiel wriggles underneath Dean, moaning at having knocked his funny-bone, and Dean just holds him there smugly and tells him in his most patronising voice that he shouldn't have tried to be the man in their relationship because it just isn't going to happen – in response to which, Castiel punches him hard in the arm.

"Ow, _shit_," Dean exclaims, rocking back to massage his arm.

Castiel's glib smirk at what he deems to be a victory is just too much to handle, and really, he is just _asking _to get smushed into the dirt – and that's how they end up squabbling on the ground, caught somewhere between feather-light, teasing kisses and fists without intent, Dean chanting, "_god, you're so dumb_" and Castiel retorting that, with the exception of the misuse of the Oxford comma, Dean is the worst thing in the entire world – and that's how they end up lying in the dry grass, still and quiet and kissing shallowly in a twisting spiral of red dust.

They've still got a good twenty minutes though before Jo comes back with the elevens - and so, slow and lazy, they pick themselves up and stumble together as a single, rolling and pushing unit, through the door and into the shadows of the Equestrian back-room, to press each other against walls, to sound their want and need into each other's skin.

It turns out Jo wasn't lying about that pineapple thing.

**Week 8, Day +22**

"So tell me... exactly how long have you been sniffing glue?"

Dean has been called into Zachariah's office to be reprimanded for a lot of things, but this is a definitely a first.

He frowns at the balding psychopath towering over him like a one-man attempt at both sides of Good Cop Bad Cop, and mulls over what has just been said to him in case he somehow misheard. Nope – no matter how many times Dean goes over, it still just sounds like _'addicted to sniffing glue'. _"Sorry?" he asks.

Zachariah pulls from one of his suit pockets a medium-sized bottle of PVA glue, seal cracked and half-empty, and he slaps it down onto the desktop in front of Dean so that it slurps ominously inside its container. Just in the top left corner of the label is a smear of red nail polish, and Dean realises that it's the bottle of glue from the Equestrian Hut.

"Have you ever seen this before?" Zachariah asks coolly.

"Well, yeah-"

"Then you'll understand my first question. I just want-"

"No, wait!" Dean interrupts. "I've seen it before because Jo and I were using it down at Equestrian to fix some old saddles, that's all!"

Zachariah's eyes narrow sceptically. "Don't play dumb with me, Winchester," he snaps. "This isn't leather glue-"

"No shit – we couldn't get anything to stick..."

There is the sudden crash of Zachariah pushing back the wooden chair in which Dean is sitting, in a move that Dean is ninety percent sure he's seen in The Bourne Identity, and Zachariah breathes angrily, "In case you've somehow failed to grasp the gravity of the situation, how about this – I can have you kicked out of this camp for drug abuse and I can have it put on your criminal record so that you can never get a job anywhere else... so whatever your _story _may be, the facts are that I found this bottle inside _your _backpack, in _your _apartment, and-"

"What the hell were you doing in my-"

"Routine drugs check," Zachariah says dismissively, straightening the lapels of his jacket. "And thank goodness I did as well, or your sneaky law-breaking might have gone unpunished!"

Dean's mouth is still caught open in incredulous protest. "But I'm not-"

"Now you listen to me," Zachariah says coldly. "You and your little band of sinners have you duped everyone else into thinking that you're the best thing since sliced bread, but I know better. Now either you can come clean and admit to a history of solvent abuse and we can start again from the top with the questions to get to the bottom of this, or we can put you through a drugs test to _drag _the answers out of you the hard way."

With an effort to distance himself from the tepid waft of Zachariah's breath, Dean takes a moment to think it over. "Uh," he says, his excessively slow pensiveness leaving no doubt as to his sarcasm, "yeah... I think I'll take the drugs test." He braces his hands against the arms of his chair and pushes himself up, taking delight in Zachariah's frozen expression of fury. "Will that be all?"

Lips snapping tightly shut with disapproval, Zachariah draws himself up to full height to respond, but can do no more than grit out, "You'll need to speak to Pamela Barnes about making an appointment, then."

"Perfect." Dean is just turning on his heel to stride arrogantly out when a horrible thought occurs to him; he swivels back. "Just checking – this is a pee-in-a-cup kind of drugs test, not a rubber-glove-up-the-butt kind of test, right?"

"It'll require a blood test."

"Okay, good to know." Dean thinks he'd rather confess to first-degree murder than let Zachariah stick his grubby hands where the sun doesn't shine, but blood tests he can deal with. He gives Zachariah a cocky salute on the way out and tries not to laugh at the increasingly pathetic attempts to bring Dean, Jo and Victor down. It's only July, after all, and it seems like they're invincible.

**Week 8, Day +21**

Dean is trying to set up a game of Ultimate Frisbee with his elevens when he realises that he's forgotten his whistle. While the kids are all organised in the right place, he shouts for everyone to chill out for a second and not run off, and he runs back to retrieve the whistle from his backpack.

As he rummages through his backpack, he also sees that his cell phone has lit up with a new message, which is weird, because Jo and Victor don't usually text him during work sessions, his mom only texts him in the evenings, and Castiel's phone ran out of credit this morning. It's because of this logic that curiosity drives him to quickly check the text before he runs out to continue Ultimate Frisbee – a poor choice.

The instant that he opens the text, every morsel of food that he's eaten in the past week rolls in his stomach with bewilderment and the feeling that something solid is crumbling beneath the surface. The text reads:

_Hey Dean – this is sorta out of the blue but I'm throwing a party this Sat and I was wondering if you wanted to drop by? it could be fun – let me know xx_

The text is from Lisa.


	15. The One With Dean Godamnit

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Week 8, Day +20**

The way Zachariah's face falls when he is given the results of Dean's drugs test, you'd think he'd just watched a baby panda get hit by a car. The way Dean's face splits into a giant, shit-eating grin of triumph, you'd think he'd just won a war - and, in a way, he has.

Pamela Barnes came back saying that Dean was completely clean, aside from some weird fluctuations in blood sugar levels, which Dean guesses is probably do with icecream and corn dogs and slushies in Alben recently, but aside from that, there is not a single drug beyond ibuprofen in his blood. Zachariah has got nothing on Dean except a waste of time and money.

"Is there anything else you want?" Dean asks, too innocently, as he stands in Zachariah's office watching his face contort with a mixture of rage and despondency.

"No," Zachariah replies, sighing heavily. "That'll be all. Back to your duties, then."

"Thank you!" Dean sings, and he practically _skips _out of the lobby into the bright sunshine. The only way this day could get better right now would be if Beyonce herself suddenly fell from the sky into his arms and begged him to have his way with her on Zachariah's desk... and there's still a good ten hours of daylight for that to happen, so Dean's optimistic.

As Dean bounces down the steps to check the volunteer timetable for his next session, he catches sight of Victor wandering down the path towards him, carrying a mop and a bucket full of cleaning products.

"Hey!" Dean calls, and he feels excitement creep up through his bones because he has news that he hasn't been able to tell Victor yet – news that he doesn't want Jo to find out about just yet, and so it's difficult to get Victor alone for a proper bro-discussion. "Are you busy right now?"

Victor lifts his bucket and mop as he approaches, but contradicts the action by shaking his head. "All that's waiting for me right now is a couple dozen filthy shower cubicles," he says. "I've got time. What's up?"

"_Well,_" Dean starts, beaming from ear to ear. "For one thing, I just got the results of my dumb drugs test back." He holds out his arms in a gesture of grandeur. "Clean as the Virgin Mary's thighs. God, but you should have seen the look on Zachariah's face when he saw it – I thought he was actually going to start crying!"

"He had it coming though," Victor chuckles. "Serves him right. Man, I can't believe he actually went through _our stuff_ – it's so creepy!"

"We should probably count our underwear and check that none of it's missing," Dean suggests, and laughs when Victor makes a horrified gagging noise.

"Don't even saythat!" Victor says in dismay, pretending to gouge his own eyes out with the blunt wood end of the mop. "I wouldn't put it past him... there's _something _not right about that guy."

"What, you mean aside from religious mania and domestic violence?" Dean says drily, raising his eyebrows. He doesn't even really want to think too much about the old pink ridge on Castiel's eyebrow from the time he got near-enough back-handed to the ground; the very idea of it makes him want to hit something. "The guy is fucked up a hundred ways from Sunday." Dean rocks from side to side, caught up again in excitement, and continues, "That's not the biggest news I've got though..."

"Yeah?" Victor rests his mop and bucket on the sidewalk by his feet, settling in for a story.

Dean balls his hands into fists to keep himself from flailing them all around the place and holds Victor's eyes. "Guess who got a text from _Lisa freaking Braeden_?"

For some reason, Victor doesn't seem wildly excited by this revelation. "Crowley Coolen, probably?" he says sarcastically.

Dean scowls. "No, dumbass – me!_ I_ got a text fromLisa Braeden_. _She invited me to a party this Saturday! I mean, obviously I can't go, because I'm practically in the Southern hemisphere right now, but just think about it, okay?" Dean rolls onto the balls of his feet. This is the exciting part; he's spent a long time working out the logic of this. "That party is basically going to be full of cool guys and hot cheerleaders, none of whom I know or have ever spoken to, for the most part. I don't get invited to this kind of shit. There is literally no reason for me to be invited, right – unless Lisa specifically wanted me there herself!"

"O-kay?" Victor says slowly. "What's your point?"

Rolling his eyes, Dean takes a deep breath. "Okay, Rainman – my point is that she not only knows who I am, she is also interested in who I am, and... and she wants to put her _boobs_ on who I am, probably!" he blurts out, failing to comprehend what part of this isn't the best thing to have ever happened. "Like, I've spent this whole summer getting money and stuff so that I can win her over when we go back to school, but what if I never needed to? What if she _already _likes me – and – and I'm just sitting in Texas wasting time when I could be back in Lawrence having sex with her! Godamnit – I mean, I don't think she'll move on before I get home – I hope not – but you know, it's just..." Dean can't contain himself now; he hops up and down on the spot a little, feeling like a hyperactive little kid. "It's happening! It's really happening!"

"Right." To say that Victor sounds less than delighted would be an enormous understatement. He leans on his mop, frowning to himself.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks. "Are you not feeling great or something? Because, you know, this is the best thing to ever happen in my entire life so far and you're kind of being a downer on it right now."

"Well, I already knew all this so-"

Dean wasn't expecting _that_. He jerks back, blinking hard, bewildered. "What? How?"

"Jo told me."

"How the hell did _Jo _know?"

Victor sighs exasperatedly. "How do you think Lisa got your number in the first place? She texted Jo to ask for it – and don't ask me how Lisa has _Jo's _number, because I have no idea. There's probably some secret global girl network in place that we don't know about – and so I knew that Lisa was going to text you and probably ask you out somewhere-"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean is still totally unable to wrap his mind around the idea that both Jo _and_ Victor had known in advance that the single hottest girl on the planet was going to ask him out and yet somehow hadn't felt the need to let him know.

"We figured you'd find out when she texted or called you or whatever, and..." Victor trails off. He shifts awkwardly, nudging at his bucket with his foot so that the products inside it rattle. "Well, we wanted a chance to try and ground you in reality before it got to that point so we wouldn't get all this dreamy-eyed bullshit I'm getting right now, so clearly it hasn't worked."

Dean recoils, offended. "What dreamy-eyed bullshit?" he demands, realising even as he speaks what the answer will be – and therefore why Jo was so insist on letting Castiel and Dean spend so much alone-time in an unattended Equestrian hut.

"Okay, so then I'm going to assume that you're spouting all these magical plans to live happily-ever-after with Lisa Boob-den at me, despite having considered that you're already in a relationship?" Victor asks pointedly.

Completely baffled, for a second Dean can only blink at him. "What?"

Victor speaks very slowly with extra emphasis on every syllable, like he's talking to an idiot. "You've been dating Castiel for two weeks?"

"No, I haven't," Dean retorts, his face screwing up incredulously. "What the hell, man? Cas and I aren't _dating_!"

"Dean," Victor starts again, his tone irritated. "You can't just-"

"Look, I'm not even gay!" Dean interrupts. "I'm not gay and Cas is my friend and we just-"

"Have sex in closets?" Victor cuts in, looking more and more pissed off with every passing second.

"We're not having sex!" Dean snaps, at this point totally past caring who hears. "We're not doing _anything_, okay? Jo makes me do all that other stuff because if I don't then she'll kick my ass – you know she will, you've seen her do it a hundred times! Cas and I aren't having sex and we're certainly not _dating, _okay – we're just-"

"What, fuck buddies?" Victor asks coldly.

"Yeah!" Dean agrees angrily before he realises that it wasn't the right response; Victor's expression has slid into venomously disappointed territory. "I mean – no, but – you know what I'm saying!"

"No, I don't," Victor replies. "And, to be honest, I don't think you do either." With that, he picks up his bucket and he tucks the handle of his mop under his arm, ready to head off and end the conversation altogether – but not before adding, "You're gonna really fuck him up, you know that?"

By this point, Dean is so shaken and angry with the way this conversation has turned out that he doesn't even know what he's saying – or maybe he does, and maybe he just doesn't give a shit about Castiel fucking Novak and his fucking feelings and the state of his gay little heart. Maybe he's just the same selfish bastard that he's been pretending not to know about this whole time. Maybe.

So this is how it goes:

Victor tells Dean that he's going to fuck up Castiel's whole life by being the heartless little shit who wandered into the heart of a hopeless kid having the nerve to defy religion by loving the wrong people, and who spun him along thinking that love and peace and forgiveness really did exist, and who then kicked him down into the dirt with the knowledge that his sexuality was just a stupid, embarrassing three-month experiment in sin.

And Dean bites back, "So?"

Victor makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat as he walks away, like in that moment he hates Dean – and Dean doesn't blame him one bit.

**Week 8, Day +19**

Jo found out that Dean was being an asshole within half an hour of his initial conversation with Victor, and so now they're _both _pissed off with him – but, fortunately enough for him, Castiel is always hanging around being his usual cute and dopey self so there are no opportunities for Jo to jump on Dean and break his face.

What this does mean, however, is that they are now taking it out on him at ping-pong during their lunch-break.

The sharp, slicing _smack _of the bat against the ball sounds like a threat with every strike, with isn't exactly helped by the menacing scowls on the other side of the ping-pong table. Dean is opposed by Jo at this very second, and while he prefers her openness with her feelings rather than Victor's method of retreating into a shell of disappointment, her violence and furious expression is beginning to get to him.

"Are you ready to give up yet?" Jo growls, hitting the ball back like she's attempting to smash someone's skull in. "Or are you just going to keep being a _stubborn asshole_?"

Dean ignores her. Over many years, he has learnt that responding to Jo only makes her angrier and this situation could very rapidly deteriorate in a bad way; Castiel is still standing on the sidelines, watching the game with rapt obliviousness, and the thought of him discovering the shitty things that Dean had said about him to Victor the day before makes Dean's stomach pitch nauseatingly.

In those few seconds while he is distracted, Jo slams the ball back – bounces it twice – and then it hits Dean hard in the chin, leaving a stinging red welt.

"Ow, Jesus!" he exclaims, his free hand coming up to rub at his face. "Okay, Jo, I think you win."

She straightens up, huffing her breath out triumphantly, and pushes her hair back from her face. "Damn straight."

"My turn," Castiel says, pushing himself off the wall to approach the table. He takes the bat from Jo and turns to face Dean, flexing one arm in excessive preparation for the game considering that he's terrible. "Are you ready?"

"Baby, I was born ready," Dean jokes, and smirks a little at the pink flush that emerges low on Castiel's throat at the stupid endearment. "Let's do this."

They play.

Castiel fumbles a lot; whenever he drops the ball, it takes him an age and a half to retrieve it from wherever it has fallen, and sometimes Dean offers to go and pick it up even if it fell from Castiel's half of the table. Once he tripped while trying to hit it and whacked his hip on the corner of the table, temporarily incapacitating himself, and several times he flails so wildly to hit the ball that he misses altogether.

"Do you want to stop?" Dean teases him a couple times. "Careful, Cas – don't hurt yourself."

And therefore, when Dean wins fifteen-nil, and when Castiel demands a rematch, insisting that this time he will be better, and that if he loses again then he'll buy Dean lunch every day for a week – or the other way around, should he magically win – then, of course, Dean idiotically, _idiotically_ says yes.

In hindsight, it was a bad move.

The instant that they shake on it and return to their respective positions, bat in hand, Castiel's blundering stupidity suddenly dissolves to be replaced by startling professionalism, and as soon as Dean serves the ball and gets it positively _sliced _back with a spin on it that he could never recover from, he realises that he's been had.

"You little _bitch_," Dean says, mouth slack with reluctant awe, and he turns to fetch the ball, recognising even at this early stage that he's been hustled.

Castiel shrugs innocently.

From then on, there is no return. There is no hope for recovery. There is just the brutality of a startlingly ping-pong talent that Dean would have never believed possible beyond Forrest Gump and the raucous screeching of Jo and Victor practically wetting themselves with laughter as Dean gets absolutely wailed on.

Dean doesn't just lose; he gets massacred, dismembered, and the broken, tearful shards of his once-arrogant body are scattered to the four corners of the earth, and Castiel looks pretty damn pleased with himself while doing it.

The game once again ends fifteen-nil, although this time it isn't for want of trying.

When Dean falls to his knees in a mockery of anguish and agony, Jo looks temporarily satisfied and Victor is too busy wiping tears of laughter from his eyes to form an expression of any kind, so he seems to be alright with this turn of events. Castiel sets down his bat and comes over very apologetically to help Dean up – despite not being all too apologetic when he insists that the bet still stands and that Dean should really have learned after the burrito kayak wars to pick his bets better.

Dean just shoves at Castiel's hair, attempts half-heartedly to give him a dead arm and says that he'll buy his lunch for a week but he can't guarantee that the lunch won't have faecal matter in it when it reaches Castiel.

"Delicious," Castiel says solemnly, and even Dean laughs at that.

**Week 8, Day +18**

On Friday afternoon, Dean and Castiel set out on an adventure.

As ever, the eleven-year-olds are allowed some special trip – _'to make sure the older kids have a really exciting, fun experience at the end of their vacation' _– on the weekend before their changeover day, and since, for some reason, there has been so much emphasis placed upon learning survival skills this particular fortnight, they are what is ostensibly the camping trip of a lifetime. Or something.

For Dean, no matter how shitty the excursion may turn out to be, he is infinitely more excited by the knowledge that here, _finally, _is an activity where the two volunteer activity coordinators will be together – and so he is basically being given free leave to spend two whole days with Castiel, outside Zachariah's creepy little reign of control.

"Come on, asshats," Dean calls, swinging from the door into the mini-bus. "Get your stuff on board and let's _move_."

"My thoughts exactly," says Chuck Shirley gratefully from the driver's seat just behind Dean. He's the only member of staff accompanying them, but he'll more than likely be spending most of his time alone at a bar nearby the camping site trying to drown his failed dreams in cheap whiskey. He frowns a little and adds as an afterthought, "Don't swear at them too much, though. They're easily influenced."

Dean just winks at him and then hops down to where Castiel is struggling to carry an enormous, badly-packed tent. Together they haul it to the back of the bus, stuff it in on top of everything else, and then run around hassling the last of their elevens into their seats.

"Seatbelts, everyone!" Castiel says, slamming the door closed behind him as he climbs in, and he peers down the aisle at the faces of a dozen or so disgruntled children. "Your safety is very important, so we're not going anywhere until you've all-"

"Welcome to the BAMF-mobile!" Dean shouts, fist-pumping as he slides past Castiel to get to the last available seats. "We're gonna have one hell of a good time, guys."

"What's a BAMF?" one girl asks from the back.

"Nothing," Castiel replies hastily. "Don't worry about it. Now, please raise your hand if you have not yet got your seatbelt securely fastened, or if you're having a problem with-"

"M&Ms, anyone?" Dean asks loudly, holding up a packet, and is answered by the raucous screaming of the kids behind him, effectively drowning out Castiel's safety speech. Dean chucks the bag backwards towards them with no more than a yelled _"enjoy!"_, and the warning not to feed any to the diabetic kid.

When Dean swivels back in his seat to look towards the front, he is faced with the most piercing of Castiel's glares – that, plus a world of pain when Castiel smacks him hard in the shoulder.

"What?" Dean protests, all wide-eyed innocence.

"You're going to end up with one of these children dead in the wilderness, I can feel it," Castiel hisses as he falls into the seat next to Dean.

The mini-bus groans and creaks to a terrifying three MPH up the road out of camp, and Dean leans over, nudging Castiel with his elbow. "You'll feel something else in a minute, if you're lucky," he whispers.

The expression Castiel turns on him is extremely disapproving.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Don't worry," he says then, trying for his most comforting smile. "If any of these kids end up dead, I'll be sure to make it look like an accident."

Castiel turns away to stare straight ahead so that Dean can't see the involuntary lift of a smile on his lips - but Dean sees. And if that isn't the damn cutest thing Dean has ever witnessed, then he doesn't know what is.

The drive to the camp site is just under a half hour long, filled with dumb songs, games, and general silliness. When they reach the site, they then all have to get to work setting up what will be their living-space for the next thirty-six hours or so.

There is a long fence of rotting wood that stretches a couple of miles along the dirt road down which the mini-bus had come. On one side of it is scrubland as far as the eye can see; on the other side, there is some kind of Heritage Park, with trees of every size and colour stood together in disorganised clusters, through which a narrow path can be faintly seen. Once Chuck has parked the bus, they file down this path to find the location of their personal site.

Navigating through a clump of low hedges, they come to a space interspersed with marginally less trees. The ground is dry and rocky, and easily looks like the least comfortable place that Dean has ever been made to sleep – and once, when he was really high, he slept in a tumble-drier.

They set up the tents, struggling with rusty pegs and torn groundsheets and support poles all jumbled up in the wrong places. They've been practicing this for weeks now, though, so they get it right in the end, even with stupid godamn Albert Oiseau, the eleven-year-old menace, trying to impale one of the girls on a pole. Then they can throw their equipment roughly inside and return to the designated middle ground, the clear space encircled by the tents where Castiel is setting up the resources needed for a fire.

The kids each get their own space to start a fire by hand, using nothing but natural firestarters... and when Dean overhears one of the kids reciting his previous instructions for starting a fire verbatim – with innuendo included – he flashes Castiel a sly look and chuckles to himself when he flushes red.

They cook crude dinners and eat it luke-warm, everyone too impatient to wait for their food to heat all the way through; Dean is too lazy to warm his at all, and eats his cold. Castiel is diligent, stirring his around and around in his little pot of water, and then takes a lifetime to eat it as well. By the time he's finished, everyone has washed up and put away their things, returning now to make one big campfire (and this time they're allowed to use flint-and-steel to get it going) around which they can all sit and tell stories.

Dean eyes Albert Oiseau for a second as he cavorts around with a flaming stick, but comes to the conclusion that he should be fine to go over and help Castiel wash up without letting anyone get grievously injured.

"Hey," he says as he approaches, and he reaches over Castiel for another little sponge with which to scrape gunk off the inside of his pot. "Well, I trust you had a long, relaxing meal."

Castiel frowns at him. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to enjoy the flavours," he says defensively.

"There _are _no flavours," Dean retorts. "It was godamn boil-in-a-bag pasta. The only flavours I got from that were manufactured pigs' blood and sadness."

Humming a little with disagreement, Castiel finishes rinsing his dishes and scoops them all up into his arms. Dean piles the pot that he was washing on top of Castiel's already-laden arms, and that's when he spots that at some point Castiel has itched his face while dish-washing, because there is a bright spurt of fluorescent dish-liquid along his nose.

It's so endearingly stupid that Dean can't help but laugh. He stretches out a thumb to wipe the soap away, and he doesn't even realise what he's doing before he's crushing the wet, soapy contents of Castiel's arms into his chest as he kisses him hard in the glittering darkness.

When Dean pulls back, Castiel just blinks at him, dazed. "What was that for?"

"You, uh," Dean says, "had soap on your nose."

It isn't really an explanation, not by any standards, but Castiel seems appeased by it. They head back, ditching their dishes just inside the doorway of their tent as they pass it – because, apparently, having spent weeks trying to keep Dean and Castiel apart, Zachariah didn't think to ensure that they wouldn't be sharing a freaking tent, although it's hardly as though they're going to get jiggy surrounded by a dozen kids, plus The Bearded Wonder.

The supposedly impressive campfire is still only smouldering when Dean and Castiel return, so Dean pitches in to help get it going while Castiel makes sure that everyone is well-fed and comfortable before they set up with ridiculous, overly-energetic games and campfire songs.

And it's fun. Dean wasn't expecting it – thirty-six hours trapped with a bunch of kids, most of whom hate him, wasn't exactly his idea of a really good time – but it's fun.

They tell jokes and little stories and they play Duck Duck Goose and Albert glowers at everyone from across the other side of the circle but he doesn't punch anyone, which is good, and one time Castiel puts his hand on Dean's knee when he's referring to Dean is some witty anecdote and he forgets to take his hand away so it just sits there, warm and comforting on Dean's bare skin, and sometimes their eyes catch and sometimes their mouths lift and sometimes their fingers twitch like they just want to be closer – and they are miles and miles from anyone who gives a shit about them, and Castiel's smile looks soft in the glint of starlight, and everything is golden.


	16. The One Where They Do It

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**Warnings: Yeah. In case the chapter title didn't give it away, there is full-on, full-frontal porn. And... not much else. Je ne regrette rien.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**later that evening**

By midnight, all the kids are secure and quiet in their tents, their excitable gossiping chatter giving way to sleep; Chuck Shirley has stumbled back from wherever he spent the evening, reeking of strange perfume and strong strawberry liqueur, and crashed somewhere; the only lights left under the thin canopy of the trees overhead are the smouldering embers from the campfire, and a dim glow from Dean's tent.

Castiel retreated there about half an hour ago, claiming that he was going to put his pyjamas on, but he never came back, leaving a similarly pyjama-clad Dean to clean up the mess all by himself. How convenient. Dean bets that he'll go in there and find Castiel _innocently asleep_, with no idea that he ditched Dean to do all the hard work... but if that's the case, then someone is going to get _beat._

Dean stubs out the last of the fire with a fallen log and throws cold water over it afterwards, just to be sure. Then, after glancing around the campsite a couple times to check that everything is under control, he heads back to his tent.

When he manages to fumble the zip door open, he finds Castiel not pretending to be asleep, luckily enough for him, but curled up against a pile of still-stuffed sleeping-bags, wearing his dumb fluffy grey sweater, holding a flashlight in one hand and a book in the other. Upon Dean's entry, he looks up, eyes startled wide, but he only smirks when he realises that it's Dean, having cleaned up the whole campsite by himself.

"Did you have fun?" he asks innocently.

Dean toes off one sneaker and flips it at him. "You lazy bastard," he grumbles, ducking into the tent and zipping it up behind him. "Tomorrow when we've gotta pack everything away, you can do it all your damn self." He drops onto his knees and crawls towards Castiel on his hands and knees, the top of his head bumping against the material of the tent above him. "What are you doing, anyway?" Dean asks, plucking at the book in Castiel's hands until he can see the cover. "_War And Peace? _Again?"

Castiel bristles. "Well, I'm not getting any further through it because the time that I would usually dedicate to reading is frequently filled with _distractions_." He gives Dean a pointed look, but the crease in his brow is a smile so he's clearly not too annoyed by it.

"God, that's awful," Dean teases, voice low in the quiet of the tent and woodland, and he crawls closer. "I feel terrible for you, really."

"You're going to try and distract me again, aren't you?" Castiel says exasperatedly, already starting to lower the book in reluctant defeat.

"Who, me?" Dean murmurs, stretching over and kissing Castiel, once, and chastely, but his mouth lingers lazily there. "I'd never dream of it."

Dean kisses him again, again, insistently and with incremental force so that, very slowly, he crawls into Castiel's personal space and pushes him backwards; Castiel leans and then wobbles and then falls to lie back against the crinkly curl of his sleeping bag, pinned beneath Dean's weight.

"Dean, there are kids right outside," Castiel chastises, wriggling to get away – but he's only going through the motions.

"Sleeping." Dean reminds him quietly between long, slow kisses. He catches Castiel's lower lip between his teeth, bites at it; Castiel hums in the back of his throat in a noise that's one-part disapproval, two-parts pleasure, but determinedly makes a show of trying to push him off. Dean pulls back to look Castiel in eye, smirking. "And hopefully they'll stay that way, unless you start moaning all over the place again."

Castiel flushes upwards from the jaw, embarrassed, but he sighs, giving in. "Fine," he huffs against Dean's mouth, but pulls back a little, suddenly concerned. "Wait, wait – where's my bookmark?"

Dean obediently leans over to rummage through camping equipment and Castiel's discarded camp uniform to retrieve the fallen slip of plastic, and passes it over. He waits as Castiel slots it into place and neatly places his book and the flashlight, still on, to one side before pressing back in, all hands and knees and the light flick of tongue against Castiel's bottom lip to get him to open his mouth and let him in.

From there, they kiss deep and bruising, licking and sucking until their mouths are slick, swollen, shiny, and Dean shifts his weight to better push into Castiel. Hands come up to twine around Dean's neck and sweep slyly under his T-shirt collar; Dean squirms against the itch of Castiel's fluffy sweater for a good five minutes or so before losing his patience, and he sits back on his heels, one knee either side of Castiel's thighs, and says. "I swear to god, it's like making out with a baby panda." He tugs at the material of the sweater. "Off."

"I get _chills_," Castiel protests, scowling, but he obediently unhooks his hands from Dean's neck and reaches for the hem of the sweater to yank it off – his back arching to pull off the fabric where it's trapped beneath him, hips rolling up into Dean's as he squirms free of it – and then he pauses for a second, his eyes wide, dark and finding Dean's like a question of hunger and want, before he reaches to peel off his cotton T-shirt too.

It's sudden and unexpected and it sears through Dean's every nerve ending, fizzing fit to fall apart. He's seen Castiel shirtless a million times before, of course, at Water Sports and in the pool and just when messing around with Jo and Victor, but this is different – here, the stretch of muscles under his skin, the pale lines at his throat and arms where his uniform keeps him from tanning, is all for Dean's eyes only and it's quiet and intimate – and what started as a mindless, horny teenage make-out session has changed somehow, in a way that he can't quite name.

Silent as the night outside, Castiel lies below Dean, still holding his eyes and unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, and he waits.

With the flutter of self-consciousness in his stomach like an angry bird, Dean hooks a thumb into the back of his collar and tugs it sharply over his head in what would be a smooth and seductive movement, if not for the fact that the collar gets stuck behind his ears and one elbow goes in at the wrong angle and he gets all tangled up in the fabric. By the time Castiel has sat up, laughing, and helped him out of the shirt, Dean is already bright red with humiliation. He tries not to think about the fact that his blush will spread from his cheeks and ears all the way down his throat to his chest until he looks like a traffic cone, or the fact that he has more freckles in any given square inch of his sun-burnt torso that most people have on their entire body – and then Castiel drops the discarded T-shirt to one side, reaches up to curl his fingers against the hollow below Dean's jaw where the heat of embarrassment beats strongest, and kisses Dean again and again until he can't remember the anxiety flickering inside him anyway.

Castiel sinks back onto his bundled-up sleeping bag, pulling Dean down with him, and catches his mouth like a promise – snagging his lower lip, pushing his tongue in to lick slowly, sweetly, over Dean's, against the roof of his mouth – chasing snatched gasps and sighs and sharp, breathy, wordless sounds that, had they shape, would be _please Cas please_. For a guy who two weeks ago had never even been kissed on the cheek by anyone outside of his family, Castiel is a freaking fast learner. He kisses languidly, like he's got all day – all day and he intends to spent every damn second dragging involuntary groans from Dean's throat.

And there it is – Castiel lifts a leg up, propping his foot behind him, and the movement shifts Dean along so that his knees no longer bracket Castiel's thighs but so that instead he falls into the cut of Castiel's pelvis, hips slotting parallel, and then, on top of everything else, Castiel _rolls_ – and yes, _there_, the shaking, desperate noise that can't be stifled, the groan like he's coming apart. Dean's head falls forwards, free of Castiel's mouth; he clamps down hard on his own lower lip to try and muffle the sound. He can feel the way they fit together, their hardness tangible and aching beneath their clothes, and sliding together in hot, messy jerks, every push a firestarter.

Dean is swept up in the narrowing warmth of want between his legs, lust an arrowhead through the ever-urgent drum of blood in his skull, his wrists, low in his stomach, in his cock where it bumps against Castiel's through their shorts, sparking ignition. Dean's hands skate roughly down Castiel's sides, cool and calloused, slowing on the descent to thumb at the pale crests of his hipbones and feel the thin sheen of sweat in the hollows beside them. His fingers graze a little close to the waistband of Castiel's shorts; Castiel's hips twitch unconsciously upwards, seeking the contact, but finds no more that the solid weight of Dean's legs either side of him, the heat of their cocks trapped between their bodies.

Shoving roughly back against Castiel, Dean uses the temporary distraction of Castiel's sharp sigh to take the moment back; he skids a shy thumb up over Castiel's sternum, the ridges of his ribs, finds the nub of a nipple – and he's not really sure what he's doing here but he grazes his thumb experimentally over it – and Castiel gasps, the noise snagged and rocky in his chest, so Dean's doing something right. He brushes his thumb back along, covers Castiel's mouth with his own to drink in the incoherence stumbling from Castiel's tongue, the _oh oh oh Dean_, because he can feel that in the tautly tented material of Castiel's pyjama pants, the sweat collecting shiny at the waistband, the unconscious snap and pulse of his hips up into Dean's. He knows that Castiel is unravelling - he doesn't need to be told – but all the same, that doesn't stop Dean from seeking it out ten times over, licking wetly over the ridge of his collarbone, tonguing at the hollow of his throat, sucking hard enough to pull a solar system through a bendy straw... until Castiel arches, hips jerking, and tips his head back.

They've still got to be careful; they are still in secret. Castiel won't moan, won't swear, won't shout – but the teeth embedded in the plush of his lower lip doesn't hold back the low whine when Dean kisses and sucks at the underside of his jaw or the sigh when Dean lets go or the undulating slow grind from chest to toe. "Dean," Castiel breathes shakily, lifting his head to look him in the eye.

"That's me," Dean whispers back, grinning. He has worked his way backwards, and now when he sits up, he can let his fingers play idly with the inseam of Castiel's pants and the soft give of his thigh underneath. His goofy grin stretches wider at the way Castiel fidgets under him, letting out tiny trembling breaths every time Dean's fingers stray too far up the inside of his thigh. Dean aims for nonchalance. "What's up?"

"Please," Castiel says, and there's a raw scratch to his voice like he's breaking, and if the way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and lets his eyes fall over Dean from mouth to stomach is anything to go by, then that's not too far off the mark. Castiel swallows hard, and seems to struggle with himself for a moment before speaking. "Dean – ah – please – touch me?"

Dean's pulse slams hot and heavy through his veins. He can feel it drumming between his legs, screaming like _yesyesplease_ – but Castiel has always been a bossy little fucker in this department, and Dean is just starting to enjoy the raging heat of Castiel's frustration. He can play with this a little.

"Like how?" Dean asks, still grinning as he lowers a hand to Castiel's crotch, watching Castiel's eyes track the movement hungrily. Then Dean digs the heel of his hand into where he can feel the base of Castiel's cock, drags upwards and palms him fierce enough through his clothes that Castiel doesn't time to clamp down and compose himself – the groan that reverberates from the back of his throat is low and rough and absolutely filthy, and Dean's hips instinctively fuck forwards hard. The action doesn't displace the echo of that needing noise where it is still rattling in Dean's skull, somewhere in the hot chaos of _fuck shit fucking fuck _and _god I want him bad_ and the burning desire to map Castiel out like this, eyes wide and dark and watching Dean's hands play teasingly with him with a crumpled, starving expression like he might actually die if he doesn't get skin-on-skin contact. Dean breathes steady. "Like this?" he asks, pressing the flat of his palm down firm against the thick line of Castiel's cock. "Or – like this?"

And then Dean's hand is slipping down the front of Castiel's pants and he wraps a careful hand around it, bumping just under the head, and jacks once, slow.

With a sound so winded that it seems to have been punched out of him, Castiel's head slams back against the bundle of his camping equipment; his hands curl into fists against the dusty groundsheet, pulling up into the fabric into his hands and clenching tight. "Yeah," he gasps out, chest heaving. "Yeah, yeah – anything – just-"

Dean moves again, fingers loose on the descent and then tightening on the way up – sweeping his thumb through the gloss of pre-come at the tip and swirling down to press under the head for the next careful jack and slide – and leans forwards to kiss Castiel hard. There is the push of lips and tongue and the snag of teeth against all of the above, biting and licking everywhere they can reach. Castiel groans wet and messy into the back of Dean's mouth when Dean's fingers scrape bluntly at his balls; not letting up the ferocity of the kiss for one second, he uncurls his fists from the tent groundsheet and instead clutches demandingly at Dean's hips to hold himself steady while he rolls and rolls and rolls up into Dean's touch. His eyes drop half-closed, his head thrown back to bare the long column of his throat, muscles working visibly under the surface as he pants and gasps through every shaky thrust upwards, fucking into Dean's fist like his life depends on it.

The pace picks up. Castiel breaks away to gasp open-mouthed against the stretch of Dean's throat – leaving the faintly sweat-slick dip of his shoulder bared and begging to be kissed, bitten, sucked; Dean obliges.

"Dean," Castiel says, and he's so breathless and rough that at first Dean can't distinguish between his pleasure-rambling and legitimate attempts to get his attention; he just keeps going**.** Castiel squirms a little and his hands come up to tap feebly at Dean's shoulders. "Dean – wait – _Dean_."

Pulling back to meet Castiel's eyes, Dean '_hm?'_s in response, hand still stroke-and-twisting at Castiel's cock, pumping lazily, and grinning a little at the impossible darkness of Castiel's eyes, the hot flush all across his cheeks, the bitten swell of his lips. "You okay?" he teases.

"Yeah – I was just-" Castiel's voice chokes as Dean's thumb ghosts over the tip of his cock; he clears his throat and tries again. "Dean, I was thinking – like, if you don't want to, then it's – like, it doesn't – doesn't matter or anything," –he gulps hard, uncertainly chewing at his lower lip— "but I was thinking, maybe – you know – we could... you know."

Dean's hand slows and then stills as he begins to grasp the implications of Castiel's stammering. "What?"

"You know." Dean would have said it was impossible for Castiel to redden further, were he not seeing it first-hand. Castiel swallows again, his eyes flickering over Dean's face. "We could... do it. Properly."

And it's out there in the open, that final desire that howls under their skin every time they touch, every time they _look _at each other. Dean finds that his mouth has become very, very dry and he is struggling to breathe around the sudden tightening in his stomach, the painful throb of want in his stomach and shaking through his legs. He licks his lips, a mechanical gesture, and tries to think of a way to respond, because Castiel is still panting beneath him, flushed red and hot and spread out like he could let Dean do the most despicable things to him—

Dean shuts his eyes tight. He doesn't need that in his head right now. He takes a second to breathe, and then opens his eyes again. There are a hundred things going around his head, all the answers he could give – _I'm not gay, Cas –_ _god yes please – I don't want to – what if the kids hear us – there won't be any going back – I basically told Victor that we're not dating since we haven't had sex and this will mean – god yes yes please _– but the words that nervously trip over his tongue are: "I don't know how."

Castiel – of all people, quiet, awkward _Castiel_ – laughs wheezily and looks up into Dean's face with a softness that usually melts everything else away until Dean is secure and safe in the knowledge that everything is going to be okay... but this is bigger than the question of what taco Dean should buy or whether he really needs that tacky tourists' fridge-magnet or if his shirt looks dumb, and Dean is still sitting above him, biting hard into his lower lip in an attempt to stop his hands trembling where they sit on Castiel's thighs.

"I'm certain the mechanics are fairly simple," Castiel says, his nose scrunching up at the tip with laughter, but the laugh he gives is high and anxious. "I mean, I've seen other people – uh, not, you know, like – of course, _I've _never done it – but, uh, we could, I'm sure."

Dean inhales through his nose, exhales through his nose. He can feel his fingers tightening on Castiel's legs, nails digging in. "But, uh – how – I mean, would you...? Or do I-"

"I don't mind," Castiel says hurriedly. "We could do whatever – you know, like, you could – or if you want, I don't know." He laughs again, louder this time, and he clamps his mouth quickly shut. "Maybe that's easier? If you..." he tries, trailing off awkwardly.

"Okay," Dean replies instantly, feeling ten muscles relax at the realisation that he isn't going to have to take it – and a hundred muscles tense up at the knowledge that _this is going to happen. _They're going to do things. Dean and Castiel are going to do things – _sex _things. Dean exhales sharply, but it does nothing to dispel the searing heat under his skin at the thought of it all, of Castiel and Dean and Dean-and-Castiel and being _together _and _touching each other, _and his fingers are digging into Castiel's thighs again, tight enough to bruise. "Okay – yeah."

"Yeah," Castiel echoes, nodding hastily, and one of his hands flails awkwardly in the direction of his backpack thrown to the far end of his tent. "If you look in the front pocket – there's, uh – stuff, and... yeah, things like that."

Dean half-twists to do as recommended when he realises what _stuff _Castiel is referring to. He turns back to give Castiel a pointed look. "_Seriously._"

Castiel tries for a look of endearing innocence despite blushing. "I was optimistic about the outcome of this camping trip," he confesses.

"No shit," Dean says as he twists back to rummage through the pocket that he's directed to, trying to ignore the sudden white-hot flare of want in every inch of his body at the knowledge that Castiel has been thinking about this – _planning _this, even – for a long fucking time, and thank God Dean's kneeling because his legs have turned to jelly at the thought of Castiel secretly shopping for this stuff with the intent of letting Dean Winchester fuck him open. The image flashing through his head goes straight through him and his already unsteady hands drop the crinkly-packaged condoms. Swearing under his breath, he scrabbles to retrieve one, plus a tiny, intimidating bottle of something labelled KY. "Okay. Uh... here we go."

Castiel wriggles to shift away from his sleeping bag and assorted camping equipment so that he can lie flat on the floor of the tent, and, from there, never once taking his eyes from Dean's face, he reaches up for the drawstring of Dean's pyjama pants. Dean is furious with himself for not wearing the pants with the elasticised waist today because Castiel is struggling with it from his angle, and just having Castiel's hands so close to Dean's dick is making him sweat bullets, breathe ragged.

"Here – uh, let me-" Dean says and he fumbles with the condom and lube he's holding to try and find some free fingers with which to get his godamn Alcatraz fucking Prison pants off, but by the time he's ditched the contents of his hands in order to cover Castiel's, the dumb knot and bow tied low on Dean's hips has come undone and the too-big fabric is sliding lower, lower, fabric pooling in his lap.

Dean's heart is hammering in his throat. He's never taken his clothes off for Castiel before – not all of them. What if he was supposed to shave or something? What if his dick looks weird? What if he's smaller than Castiel?—but then he's out of time to worry about these things, because Castiel has hooked his fingers into the waistband of Dean's pants and is yanking them shamelessly down.

Squirming under the intensity of Castiel's gaze sweeping over every inch of his body, Dean averts his eyes and instead focuses on attempting to open the condom, but the security of the foil packaging makes Dean's pyjama pants' drawstring look like easy access – but after a short battle, he successfully tears it open. His eyes flicker up to meet Castiel's, feeling his cheeks redden, as he clumsily rolls it on; listening to hitch of Castiel's breath, he curls a hand around the shaft of his dick and strokes once, experimentally – partly because he needs to check that it's secure and not going to come off, of course... and partly because at this stage, even the mere brush of his fingertips against himself is enough a tease to leave him shaking – and pleasure spirals up through his body hotter and fiercer than anticipated, so strong that it feels like all his stomach muscles have suddenly given out and he doubles forward, his free hand flying blindly sideways to grip something to hold him up.

"Shit," he whispers, mostly to himself; he lets his eyes close for a second to try and calm down, because at this rate he's going to come in this crappy little condom without even doing anything. "Shit, _shit. _Okay."

Out of nowhere, he feels the light press of foreign lips to his own, the flicker of someone else's tongue licking into his mouth, careful and slow. When Dean opens his eyes, Castiel pulls away, the smile in the crease of his brow. Then, with Dean's eyes on him, Castiel shimmies out of his pants and the boring grey boxers beneath them. Dean goes to help him but is temporarily distracted by the slap of Castiel's cock against his stomach as the restraining fabric drops away, and the thin wet stripe of pre-come it leaves where it lies; blood beats low in Dean's gut like the building roar of a runaway train.

"Alright," Dean says when he recalls the ability to speak, his voice scratched and rough. "Tell me what to do."

Castiel swallows; Dean sees the bob of his Adam's apple. Then, shyly, Castiel edges his legs further apart. "Lube," he says, barely audible. "And – your fingers. One at a time, until I'm... until I'm ready."

Dean's stomach dips and his throat closes up tight. His mouth is open but he can't coax words from it, so he just nods and reaches for the bottle. Tips a shitload of the thin, greasy liquid into one hand. Flexes his fingers through it. Shuffles down until he's knelt between Castiel's knees – and there, Dean can see, is the dark space, what he has called _the holy land _in his more sarcastic moments, but this is not a time for that. Dean's fingers graze up the inside of Castiel's bare thigh, letting him tremble at the skittish almost-contact – then along the crease where his thigh meets his ass, and Castiel's breath catches – and then down to his hole, and he pushes in.

And _fuck fucking fuck _but it's small and tight and hotter than should be possible, and Dean only gets as far as the bottom knuckle before Castiel locks up rigid, breath shuddering out of him. Dean pulls back, watches Castiel sag with the loss of it, and pushes back in hard for the blunt gasp – and again and again, and Castiel is breathing like a hundred miles an hour, hands fisting into the groundsheet again, his cock flushed and leaking against his stomach – and this time, when Dean pushes up, Castiel fucks back down to meet him, sliding together, and groans out, "Okay – okay, yeah – you can-"

That's all the invitation Dean needs. He uncurls his middle finger, already slick, and pushes in, in, in, and then out, moving slow and dirty, and Dean can only press his face into Castiel's thigh to try and hold himself together, thinking _don't touch yourself don't do it_, because Castiel's head is tipped right back and he's shaking and sweating and just _taking _it in low grunts, his body stretching around Dean and seeming to swallow him in and it's fucking _obscene. _Dean can only gasp along with him, shift and twist his two fingers until there's room for a third, and try not to die from the heat screaming under his skin, blazing low between his legs and pounding until he's almost agonisingly hard and so turned-on he can barely see straight.

And then somehow Dean crooks his fingers and brushes against something, and Castiel's whole body seizes up with a tortured sound that rips right out of his chest. Before Dean can even stop to ask what the fuck just happened, Castiel is grabbing weakly at him, hands blindly clutching at his shoulders and neck and hair, and muttering, "Dean, Dean, don't – or I'll – not yet – I can't-"

"Shit, sorry," Dean blurts out, immediately pulling his fingers out and flushing darkly with horror as he sits back on his heels. Shit, of course he was going to end up hurting Cas. The dude's only small and skinny and no amount of gay can protect him from how much this must damn _hurt_. He's wiping his hands on the floor and rambling an apology of '_we can stop I'm so sorry I didn't mean to-' , _before he realises that he has misunderstood.

"No, no," Castiel is saying urgently, hands still grabbing and tugging at Dean's face and shoulders; he angles his hips up towards Dean, rocking his hips uselessly against nothing. "You didn't do anything wrong. It's this – this thing, in there – and it's – it feels..." Castiel can't formulate whole sentences; he's broken up by trying to breathe evenly. His thumbs skitter across Dean's cheekbones. "Okay? It's fine. Really – just – please, do it."

Dean nods again; his fingers graze roughly against the hole again, but Castiel shifts again, tries to explain himself better.

"No – Dean," Castiel says breathlessly, hands sliding down from Dean's jaw to rest over his collarbones, his hands warm and dry against the sweat of Dean's skin. "I mean, I'm ready."

Oh. _Oh. _Dean exhales roughly, trying to sound composed and cool, but his breath comes out juddering. "Okay," he says nervously, and shuffles forwards on his knees. He curls his hands around the backs of Castiel's knees and pushes them back almost to his chest - opening him up impossibly and the sight leaves heat wrenching through Dean like it's trying to tear him apart. He gulps and reaches for the lube again. "Okay."

"Okay," Castiel echoes, eyes locked on Dean's. He's shaking – whether from the strain of having his legs hoisted up so high or from how badly he wants, Dean has no idea, but it sure as hell isn't helping.

"Cas," Dean says suddenly, as he lines up, his pulse a thunderstorm underneath his skin. "What if I hurt you or something?"

"You won't," Castiel says, his gaze intense and reassuring, but there's also an impatience in the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, the flush across his cheeks and throat, the slight curl of his lip like he's dying to just get _fucked_—

"But _what if_?"

"_Dean_!" Castiel gasps, ragged and frustrated and desperate and louder than they really need in this situation, and that's it, that's _it_—

"_Jesus_, Cas," Dean bursts out, fingers digging into Castiel's knees hard enough to leave marks – and he bites down on his lower lip until it hurts – and he squeezes his eyes shut – and he shoves forwards.

And shit fuck _shit _but Castiel is pushing back and a long, high noise tears out of him, and then he is still – and there is heat and pressure and everything inside Dean is quaking at the feeling, but he forces himself to hold still to look down at Castiel.

"Cas?" Dean asks shakily, his vision practically swimming with how incredible Castiel feels around him, and the overwhelming urge just to push and push and take everything he can get – but he tries to hold himself together for Castiel. "You okay?"

Castiel is stretched out flat and rigid; he is still breathing heavy, still flushed hot, but his hands are clenched so tight that his knuckles have blanched and he is biting down on his bottom lip so hard that Dean's worried he's going to slice straight through. His eyes, when they find Dean's, are watery, but he nods stoically. "Yeah," he says, his voice high and strained. "Just – just give me a second."

Guilt wrenching inside him, Dean nods. He leans forwards to kiss Castiel, light, reassuring kisses, one after another. One of his hands loosens from Castiel's knee and curls instead around the length of Castiel's cock to take the edge off, thumb catching underneath the head in slow, careful strokes. As Dean's hand shifts and twists, Castiel's eyes fall to half-mast, and he runs his tongue over his parted lips, and his breathing breaks up laboured in the good way as the pain recedes – or, at least, no long seems to matter.

"You okay?" Dean asks again, their lips grazing, and Castiel gives a sigh, a _yes_. Dean lifts his hips and drags himself out – and Castiel lets out this small, trembling breath of something like surprise and contentment, and he angles his body like a calling – _come back _– Dean's hips stutter involuntarily at the sight of it, at the effort of denying the instinct to just slam home. He bites his lip to try and keep himself grounded; lets go of Castiel's knee and cock so that he can brace his hands by Castiel's shoulders to hold himself up; looks quietly down at Cas, heart thundering in his ears; kisses him.

And together they move.

It's clumsy, and it's inelegant – Dean's arms are locked at the elbow but his hands are shaking; Castiel rocks his hips up sometimes when Dean is trying to pull back and they end up slipping and falling together in syncopated, illogical jerks – but Castiel has a hand cupped around the back of Dean's neck and his mouth on Dean's and they're learning to make it work.

"You tell me if it hurts too bad," Dean says softly, bracing his forehead against Castiel's so that he can pull his mouth away to speak, because he's recognising now that sometimes when Dean moves the wrong way, Castiel stiffens up, and sometimes when Dean pushes too hard, there are tiny, broken noises that Castiel lets slip before he can clamp his mouth shut. "Okay? Tell me."

"No, it's fine," Castiel says breathlessly, shaking his head like he's lost all the strength in his neck, his nose bumping Dean's. He still sounds strained, his voice tight and raspy, but he's rolling his hips up into Dean to meet him, and they're getting the hang of this now, almost; they slide together, the heat a slow burn, all-consuming, white-hot under their skin to scar them changed. "It's okay," Castiel says, his mouth wide to drag in air between words, gasping. "I'm okay. It feels... kind of perfect."

It's cheesy, stupid, even, but the words punch a inexpressible feeling straight through Dean's gut, because this is happening and it's okay and it's good and it's _theirs_.

Slowly, Dean lets his arms fold until his elbows rest on the ground either side of Castiel's head, body pressed flush against to the sweat-slick shine of Castiel's, from their chests to where they fall together, colliding like the end of all things, again, again, hot and messy and seemingly never-ending.

Castiel twists his hips on Dean's push and a thrust, and suddenly something has changed, the angle or the intent, maybe, and Castiel is suddenly arching, all the breath torn out of him in one sharp, open-mouthed sound. The words unconsciously spilling over his tongue are _there god yeah a-ah god right there Dean there_ – and Castiel has never blasphemed before, always the one to chastise Dean that God has no place in what they're doing. The shape alone of it in Castiel's mouth sends a heat through Dean's veins that he can feel shaking through his entire being; he breaks away from Castiel's lips, pressing his face into the hollow below Castiel's jaw to gasp and pant against the salty gleam of his skin as he fucks forwards; the words "_fuck_, Cas," rise on a groan and vibrate against his throat.

They're falling.

Dean can feel his own build-up in the almost agonising throb in his gut, his every muscle tightening hungrily, the short, desperate bursts of noise that he can't hold back any more - impossible to hold back when Castiel is rocking up to meet him like _that, _sweat in the muscles of his stomach, the cut of his hipbones; blood flushed from his face all the way down to his collarbones; taking Dean in easily now, a slow snap and grind, skin on skin, Castiel's cock slicker with pre-come every time Dean's hips piston forwards for them to fit together.

Castiel has a hand fisted in Dean's hair, a hand at his jaw, holding on tight as he tries to breathe, high-pitched and ragged and constantly wavering on a sound between a gasp and a cry, his whole body rolling in time. "Dean," he's suddenly rasping, his voice, where it always gravelly, now absolutely torn raw. "God, Dean – _Dean_ – I've got to-"

-and one of Castiel's hands is dropping away, drifting to his sternum and then lower, and Dean understands perfectly and he's pretty sure he's gasping _yeah do it do it _but he can't quite be sure what's tumbling out of his mouth anymore—

Castiel wraps a hand around his cock and jacks, once, twice, sliding and twisting perfectly in time with Dean's thrusts, and the sounds he's making now, touching himself, his whole body pitching with it, is jesusfucking_filthy_ and Dean can feel the narrowing pound of blood, the blinding light clouding in at the edges of his vision, the heat so intense he can barely breathe through it.

Then there's _deandeandean_ on Castiel's tongue, all running together into one long groan, and then his hand picks up to a blur on his cock, working fast and frustrated, and he arches back and he gasps and he comes with a cry like a shattered bird.

The overwhelming force of it hits Dean in the way Castiel suddenly clenches up and tightens, and that's it, over, end-game, because the wave of it slams into Dean like a brick wall – and he doesn't even know if he's succeeding at keeping quiet or not because all the air is punched straight out of his lungs and there's at least a handful more _oh my god Cas fuck fuck fuck_s leftover in his system – but he slams in hard and jackhammers and then he's left shaking and sweating with nothing left to give.

Dean doesn't know when he closed his eyes, but he opens them now, and sees Castiel below him, wide-eyed and breathing heavy and damp with sweat and wearing that tiny doofus smile like he just got given the whole damn world. Dean grins back, because he's feeling pretty fucking fantastic right now too, and he just sinks down onto Castiel's chest – sticky with come as it may now be – and kisses him stupid.

It's starting to get uncomfortable, so Dean pulls out, removes the condom and ties the top so that he can stuff it unceremoniously in a plastic bag of other, more innocent trash, and then he crawls back over to where Castiel is still lying, flat on his back, looking more than a little starstruck.

"Hey, hot stuff," Dean teases, trying to make his voice low and seductive – and is startled when it already comes out wonderfully husky. "Jesus, listen to me..." he laughs, and then uses his new, hoarse voice to say, "_I am the Batman._"

"I still prefer Spiderman," Castiel says, with the barest hint of a smile when he realises that his voice is also fucked up to high heaven.

"Well, you're wrong." Dean smacks Castiel's thigh to get him to budge up; he's sprawled out all across both sleeping-mats. "Move over, fat-ass. And if you've left butt sweat on my mat, dude, I swear to god..."

Castiel laughs a little at that. He doesn't reply, but he does shuffle over, and there is only a minimal amount of butt sweat on Dean's mat, so he doesn't complain. Dean reaches over him to turn off the flashlight, which at some point had just been thrown carelessly over to one side of the tent. He then flops down lazily onto his front, still feeling somewhat self-conscious about not having any clothes on, but if he puts his pants back on then Castiel might decide to put _his _pants back on, and that's not a risk that Dean is willing to take. He squirms to get comfortable, and then turns his head so that he can look towards Castiel.

"Soooo..." Dean says. "Virginity, huh? Good riddance."

Colour rises in Castiel's cheeks, but he nods and his brow crinkles in the middle with an almost-smile. He twists over to lie on his side, the better to see Dean, and then, as an afterthought, shifts his hips forwards so that he can move closer.

"Are you sure you're okay though?" Dean asks softly, and he tells himself that he's not going to shuffle in towards Castiel because there not having some weird post-coital embrace and they're certainly not going to _snuggle_ – but not only does he flip over and move in, but his fingers also somehow end up straying to brush over Castiel's damp skin.

"I'm fine," Castiel whispers back – because suddenly, after failed to have sex quietly and probably waking up the whole state of Texas, they are concerned about making too much noise. "I mean – I'm sore, but... it'll pass. And – well, it was worth it, so..." Castiel gives a small shrug, like it's not a big deal, but the tip of his nose screwing up begs to differ, and so Dean presses forward to close the space between their mouths.

"Yeah," he murmurs against Castiel's lips, his words barely audible even in the silence of their tent; outside there is darkness and cicada-song and the dusky firelight, and in here there is air still cloudy with the breaking and the coming together again. Dean crushes in a little closer, not yet kissing, but almost. "It was."


	17. The One With Turkey Stuffing

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Week 8, Day +15**

Dean wakes up aching in weird places – his thighs, for example; all the muscles in his stomach; his upper arms and shoulders, as well – and, even weirder still, he wakes up with his cheek smushed into Castiel's chest. Bare chest. Castiel is naked. This revelation is followed by the revelation that Dean is also naked. Together, they're sticky and excessively warm and they are what Dean would reluctantly call _cuddling._

Huh.

Blinking blearily, Dean peels his face away from Castiel's skin, and the overall weirdness of the situation is just starting to sink in – they're pressed together almost from head to toe, legs all tangled up, arms thrown haphazardly all over each other – when Castiel's eyes slowly open.

Castiel's nose scrunches up at the end in confusion, and it's so hopeless and silly that all the weirdness dissipates instantly, and Dean leans forwards to kiss him. It turns out, however, that Castiel is not a morning person; he makes a low grumble against Dean's mouth, just barely tolerating the kiss until it's over, when he can curl back into Dean and fall asleep again.

"Come on," Dean whispers to the tightly-curled bundle of sweat and snuggles who is currently trying to burrow into his chest. "We've gotta get up... ugh. What time even is it?"

As Castiel makes a bizarre yowling noise of complaint against the floor, Dean stretches past him to find his backpack, where he'd stashed his watch last night. Unfortunately, at some point, the contents of Dean's bag have been scattered everywhere, so it takes him a good few minutes to locate the watch before he can see the time – eight-thirty A.M.

"_Shit_!" He sits upright, shoving at Castiel's shoulder. "Jesus, Cas, get up – it's eight-thirty!"

Castiel rolls over, his face screwing up as he tries to comprehend what's happening. "That's impossible," he slurs, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes. "I set the alarm for seven, like we said..."

Dean strains past Castiel to hurriedly try and gather up his clothes to get dressed. The elevens are all leaving Camp Chiquita on the shuttle-bus at twelve, and for that they have to have had lunch and be ready and packed by eleven-thirty, and for that they have be back at camp by nine – and the whole plan seems to be whirling down the toilet right now. Dean and Castiel have overslept and Chuck is probably still passed out drunk in his tent somewhere and oh, Jesus _Christ_, this is bad.

"Well, I hate to break this to you, buddy, but you failed us all," Dean says, wriggling back into his underwear and uniform khaki shorts. He yanks his crumpled red polo shirt from underneath Castiel – and that's when he discovers, to his absolute horror, that one sleeve is crusted in jizz. "Oh, _shit_."

"What?" Castiel mumbles, sitting up and sleepily fumbling for his clothes.

"You came on my freaking _shirt, _that's what!" Dean hisses, brandishing the shirt and waving it in Castiel's face in outrage. "Jesus, what am I gonna – okay – uh, I'm gonna see if this comes out – you get your clothes on and start waking up the Humpties and Dumpties."

Castiel grumbles a little but obediently starts dressing as Dean toes into his sneakers and tears out of the tent, bare-chested, in the direction of the water pump where they'd been washing dishes the night before. He glances back in the direction of the other tents, where some kids are chattering quietly, but, for the most part, where all is peaceful; he then gets to furtively trying to scrub the semen out of his godamn clothing. Who the fuck decided that losing their virginity in a tent was a good idea? Ugh.

It's _sort of _coming out, aside from a really gross mucus-y film, but Dean wipes it against a tree, covering it instead in tree sap to hide it, and decides that it's a good enough job for now. He wriggles back into his shirt, turns around – and nearly jumps ten feet in the air when he sees Albert Oiseau standing just behind him, eyes narrowed.

"Morning, Albert!" Dean says brightly, trying to will down the heat in his face, because going bright red is _really _not going to help right now. Maybe Albert didn't see anything. Maybe Albert doesn't even know what that means yet. Maybe Albert's parents don't love him and never gave him The Talk – they sent him away on summer camp for two weeks, so they can't love him _that _much – it's possible, Dean thinks. He grins with false enthusiasm. "How're you?"

Sulky as ever, Albert does not answer. His jaw outs moodily and he glares as he pushes past Dean in order to get to the portable toilets. It's only once Dean hears the bathroom door click shut and lock that he lets himself breathe again. Maybe, if he's lucky, they've got away with it. He doesn't wait to find out; he shakes some of the water out of his shirt and pulls it on, ignoring the cold of the damp, and he hurries back to where Castiel is starting to get all the kids up and tidy the campsite.

Without further ado, Dean rushes straight over and tugs at the hem of Castiel's sleeve. "Cas, I think Albert might know."

Castiel frowns. "Know what?"

Dean rolls his eyes, sighing heavily. "Know the location of the Holy freaking Grail, Cas – what do you think?!" he says in an undertone. "He was giving me some seriously weird looks and I just – Jesus, I don't know."

"Well, if it's any consolation," Castiel says sourly, leaning closer so that he can lower his voice, "at least you haven't got to work around any _soreness._"

Blinking a little, confused, Dean takes in what Castiel is saying – and takes in his stiff posture, the uncomfortable way that he's holding himself – and he bursts out laughing. This only serves to deepen Castiel's frown; a pink flush rises in his cheeks.

"Sorry, man," Dean says, biting his bottom lip to try and keep his laughter under control. He would kiss Castiel, then, or at the very least smush his face, but there's no room for that here, so instead Dean reaches a hand out to shove playfully at his shoulder, his smile all lit up warm. Castiel is still glowering, but his lips reluctantly twist at the corners, so that's okay. "We'll be fine," Dean promises. "I was probably just over-thinking things."

Fear of reprimand helps them to tidy up the campsite in record time – they manage to be all cleared away no later than nine-thirty, which is still behind schedule, but overall not too bad considering that only an hour ago Dean and Castiel were still plastered all over each other naked. They get everything packed away, and do one last sweep of the campsite to check that they haven't left any litter or personal belongings before shouldering their backpacks and heading up the narrow path back to parking lot where the shuttle-bus was abandoned overnight.

Chuck trails along at the back of the line, gripping his head as though he could by some magic massage his hangover away, and his face only crumples further when he realises that he has to be responsible and actually drive the kids back to Camp Chiquita. He bangs his head on the side of the bus as he gets into the drivers' seat; Dean and Castiel exchange a worried glance at Chuck's evidently poor hand-eye coordination, and try not to think too hard about the fact that they may well die on the way back.

Aside from one time where Chuck seems to fall asleep at the wheel and starts to swerve into the lane of oncoming traffic before Dean yells at him, the eleven-year-olds, plus chaperones, make it back to camp without incident.

Of course, there is still the probably of Missouri waiting for them outside the lobby when they return, arms folded across her chest and glowering like she's attempted to kick-start the human combustion process – starting with Dean and Castiel.

"You're late," she says decisively as soon as they step off the bus, their hands held high in surrender. She uncrosses her arms and jabs one finger in their direction. "I swear to you now, if any of those kids miss their ride home, I'll be selling you two into white slavery to pay for the next plane. You hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean and Castiel chorus obediently, all smiles and sweetness. No-one has to know a thing.

They hurry the elevens back to their respective cabins and tell them all that they have just under forty minutes to tidy up and pack away all their things. From there, things lapse into chaos. All the other kids, of all ages and sizes, are currently running around like headless chickens gathering up their belongings from other people's cabins or the lockers in the communal bathrooms. It's almost impossible to find any other supervisors, let alone any one specific kid; Dean can only hope that none of them die or go missing or anything.

Dean supervises for only twenty minutes or so before he gets bored and tries to drag Castiel away to look for Jo and Victor. Of course, Castiel is being very diligent, helping everyone who so much as frowns at their suitcase, and insists on doing his job properly. "Suit yourself," Dean laughs, waving as he heads off.

Jo and Victor aren't far; he finds them sitting cross-legged on the grass near the kids' cabins, Victor eating a sloppy chicken taco and Jo laughing at one little boy who has yet to carry a single item out of his room without tripping on the steps. They flail their arms wildly to attract his attention when they see him, and call him over.

"Hey, Casanova," Jo says when Dean sits down, and she grins slyly. "How was your romantic weekend retreat?"

"It was good." Dean folds his legs beneath him, lies back to prop himself on his hands. "This one kid sprained his ankle falling over a tree root and I think The Bearded Wonder's liver is officially shot all to hell, but it was alright. Fun, you know." He gives a non-committal shrug.

"Uh-huh." Victor raises his eyebrows, pulls a face like _sure, I believe you._

Jo nudges Dean in the stomach with one pointy elbow. "So – on a scale of one to Mountain, how Brokeback was it?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Jesus, are we really starting this already?" he complains, but he can already feel heat starting to creep up his neck. No matter how cool he plays it, it's going to be hard to deny anything if he turns bright red.

"C'mon." Jo smirks. "You mean to tell me nothing happened? Tents, moonlight, solitude – and nothing? Not even a little horizontal mambo?"

"Leave me alone."

"You know," Victor says, slowly, contemplatively, as he chews on the last of his taco, "that doesn't sound like a denial to me."

Jo's face melts into an expression of shock, her mouth opening wide. "Oh my god," she exclaims. She presses a hand over her mouth to try and hold in the first breathy gasps of giggles. "I can't believe it – you actually did, didn't you?"

At this point, there is no hiding from it. Dean's face is roughly the temperature of the sun, burning so red that it's actually painful. He sits up properly, shifts in his seat, and very determinedly does not make eye contact. "Shut up, Jo."

Victor chuckles, shaking his head as he scrunches up his taco wrapper. "Man, what happened to your innocence?" he teases.

"Gosh," Jo chides, folding her arms across her head and playing at being disappointed, "and to think that Victor and I were actually hard at work over here while you were out _deflowering _Castiel in the wilderness!"

Victor nods gravely. "There are a great many flowers to be found in the Texan woodlands," he starts in the tone of a news commentator, "but Castiel Novak's flower is not one of them."

"That rare, delicate rose is nowhere to be seen," Jo joins in, solemn. "Rumours have it that it was last seen impaled on Dean's dick."

"Oh my god, seriously?" Dean drops his face into his hands, as though he can somehow burrow bodily into them and disappear forever. "_Seriously_."

"Bumping uglies... shaking the third hand..." Jo chimes, still grinning like an idiot. "I can't believe it. Dean and Castiel officially went and bust the walnut."

Dean lifts his head to stare incredulously at her, spluttering, "_Bust_ _the_—are you making these up?"

Jo side-eyes him, smirking. "Did he stuff your turkey?"

On an impulse, Dean decides the only thing to do is beat her at her own game. He tilts his head towards her, almost conspiratorially, and tells her in a matter-of-fact tone, "Actually, I stuffed _his_ turkey. Vigorously. With gravy."

Jo lets out a loud squawk, throwing up her hands either in triumph or dismay at the overload of information; Victor, certainly, gives a loud groan and drops heavily to lie back on the grass, covering his face with his hands and exclaiming _"brain bleach, brain bleach". _Dean just grins embarrassedly.

Then it gets worse, because at precisely that moment, Castiel, having sent the kids off to lunch before the shuttle bus, wanders over – walking gingerly – and asks what they're all laughing at.

Jo takes one look at Castiel's awkward attempt at sitting down on the grass, his face screwing up a little in discomfort as he does, and bursts out laughing again. Victor, for whom all this second-hand embarrassment is just too painful, takes one for the team and answers Castiel: "Turkeys. Don't worry about it."

Castiel frowns.

By this stage, Jo is struggling to breathe, and has to excuse herself to go and calm down before she pees her pants. It's not rocket science to work out that Victor is not telling the whole truth.

It's only a few seconds before he gives a long sigh, and leans over to Dean. "They know, don't they?"

Dean looks sideways to meet Castiel's eyes, and gives a cringing half-smile. "Yeah..."

Castiel exhales heavily, his mouth twisting in a_ well, what can you do? _kind of gesture. Then his brow creases up again with confusion. "Wait – turkeys?"

A short laugh bursts out of Dean. "Don't ask."

They fall into silence as they all fight desperately to think of any conversation topic that _isn't _Dean and Castiel's sex life. Jo makes some facile comment on the weather; Castiel points out a one-legged pigeon and they all laugh nervously at it. Thankfully, they are saved by Victor pointing out that it's nearing eleven and that they should go around making sure that all the cabins are packed up, cleared out, and that the kids are all in the cafeteria having their last shitty Chiquita lunch – a task that they throw themselves into with great enthusiasm, as long as it means that they don't have to think too much about gay tent-sex.

Aside from one nine-year-old girl crying because she's going to miss her new friends, there is no-one to be found hiding away in the cabins. They head back up to the cafeteria just as the now-fed kids are swarming out to collect their suitcases and start boarding the shuttle-bus.

"Come on, boys and girls, don't be shy!" Missouri shouts, tapping one foot impatiently as she stands waiting by the first bus. "We gotta hit the road in a half hour. Let's go!"

Jo sucks in a deep breath and settles into what Dean has called her drill-sergeant voice as she starts yelling for the kids to move it, organising them by airport departure time. Dean isn't particularly sentimentally attached to any of the kids leaving today – to be honest, he's quite glad to be rid of most of them – and so he helps load the buses but otherwise just smiles and waves at the flocks at emotional children piling into their seats. There is only one exception.

Albert Oiseau looks no happier by the end of the two weeks than he did the day he arrived, sullen-faced and obnoxious to those around him.

As Albert approaches the bus, Dean plasters on his biggest, sugariest smile and ducks down, hands resting on his knees, to give him a sarcastically cheerful farewell. "See you around, buddy!" he says brightly. "It's been a joy to be acquainted with you and I wish you every success in the rest of your long, happy life from the bottom of my heart."

Albert looks up at Dean with narrowed eyes. "Same to you," he says coldly. He pauses to throw his bags into the back of the bus, and then turns back to Dean and, almost as an afterthought, adds, "Thanks for a really great night's sleep."

Bewildered, Dean frowns – and then he remembers. He feels icy dread spread its fingers through his blood, and for a few seconds he has absolutely no idea what to say. He can't act ashamed, or grovel that he hasn't told anyone, or threaten him. There's nothing for it; he beams even more broadly. "No problem!"

An ever-faithful asshole to his final moments, Albert doesn't stoop to the level of answering Dean. He just keeps on fixing him with the same glare, throwing the last of his bags into the back, and then lifts his eyebrows cockily at Dean, like he knows something Dean doesn't, before he climbs up the steps onto the bus out of sight.

Dean can't shake the cold feeling of unease creeping up his spine and lifting goosebumps on the back of his neck until all the kids are stowed away in their respective seats and the buses pulling away for the airport. Even then, although he can no longer feel Albert's judgemental eyes on him, the mere thought of it leaves a sour, fearful aftertaste in Dean's mouth. He guesses this is what it means to give a shit about someone other than himself, and to be blunt, he doesn't really like it.

For the sake of not worrying him needlessly, Dean decides not to tell Castiel, and his mind is soon enough taken off the matter by the prospect of the rest of changeover day - hours and hours ahead of them, of nothing but sun, sea, sand, and stupidity, in most cases.

Not a minute is wasted before all the volunteers are taking their leave from their duties and running down to the beach, shrieking and whooping all the way. The afternoon is hot on their faces, the glare of the Gulf bright in their eyes, and everything is cast glittering in the harsh light. This time is precious, and they don't intend to let a second slip by.

There are two weeks left.


	18. The One Where They Break Out

**A/N: **Sorry for the long wait for an update! Also, this is a general notice that the title of this fic will be changing, and that with the next instalment, it'll be called 98.6 instead – so you don't get all confused when you get notified that 98.6 has updated instead of Kind Of Forever Deal. Thanks!

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Week 9, Day +15**

The dulcet sounds of screaming and raucous laughter drift in from the beach, where the volunteers are playing some dangerous and for the most part legally dubious game involving a badly-shaken bottle of Sprite and a baseball bat, but back in the apartments, Dean, Jo, Victor and Castiel are otherwise occupied.

A few days ago, Ellen Harvelle mailed Jo a handful of coupons to Six Flags Fiesta Texas that she'd cut out of a newspaper – _OFFER LASTS UNTIL AUGUST 25__TH__, _it declares in colourful print – and she had attached a short note saying that she didn't know if they would ever get a day off, but if they did, then it was near-enough to the end of their summer employment that they deserved some fun. They are more than happy to take her advice.

It's twelve-thirty by the time all the kids had left on the shuttle-buses, and a four-hour journey to San Antonio in the heat of the day stretches ahead of them, but they know that this is probably their only opportunity to go – not only because there wouldn't be any more changeover times to give them a free half-day, but also because it was declared over breakfast that Zachariah is away on a short business trip into Houston and won't be back until tomorrow evening, and therefore is unable to stop them from escaping camp.

They get ready as fast as possible, cramming backpacks full of money, snacks, cameras, sunscreen, and anything else they could possibly need, before grabbing bicycles from the lot behind the apartment building, and cycling off to Alben as fast as their legs can take them. They don't so much as glance behind them as the camp-site dwindles into a heat-warped blur of grass and concrete behind the sugar plantations; they're looking ahead.

In town, they lock their bikes to the stand outside Singer's, and with a wave to Bobby inside to apologise that they aren't stopping to get any ice-cream, they hitch their backpacks higher on their shoulders and sprint for the bus station. It's midday on a Saturday and the pier is at its busiest – they dodge and weave between giddy couples, over-excited children, living statues whose carefully-painted silver arms move to entertain on-lookers with the jerky grace expected of stone, dawdling elderlies; the tinny, electric soundtracks to the fairground rides already in full-swing are the background noise to the slap of their sneakers on salt-cracked boards.

Thanks to Victor's immaculate planning, it's only six minutes until the next bus arrives to Houston when they arrive at the station, and so they spend the available time getting ready for the day in ways that they'd been unable to spare the time for, back in the apartment – namely, Victor and Castiel taking great joy in slathering Dean up with obscene quantities of sunscreen to protect his delicate complexion, splattering everyone's faces and clothing completely until they look like inverted Dalmatians, while Jo meticulously deodorises herself in preparation for a long afternoon of running back and forth under the heat of the sun. Victor brushes his teeth in a water fountain, after having not had the time to do so after a lunch that included some particularly offensive garlic-chicken. Castiel pulls his cap down over his forehead.

They scramble onto the bus once it pulls in, making an instinctive beeline for the backseats, and they sit – Jo and Castiel, Dean and Victor – on the shaded side of the bus only to be immediately thrust into the dazzling sunshine for the entirety of the journey once the bus turns around.

It's just over an hour to Houston – an hour of trying to share one ipod with two headphone ear-buds between four people, of Castiel's bewilderment at how they three could know every word and note and piano solo of Bohemian Rhapsody when it seemed mostly to be nonsense, of the Question Game and shameless gossip regarding the other volunteers. Castiel sets down _War And Peace _after fifteen minutes and tucks it back into his backpack, resigning himself to the fact that he isn't going to get any further through the novel today. The transfer onto the bus to San Antonio is easy enough, and from there it's just a couple more hours down the highway. Jo falls asleep on the bus, sagging heavily against Castiel's shoulder, and Castiel holds carefully still while Dean and Victor busy themselves attaching assorted objects to her hair and balancing things on top of her head. She wakes up as they're passing Schulenberg and doesn't notice the damage until the turn-off to the Carter Memorial Airport. She finds it only a little funny as she picks wrapped candies and magazines out of her hair; Castiel is the only one she doesn't punch in the arm.

By the time they get to San Antonio, it's past four o'clock, and nearing five when they get to Six Flags and cash in their coupons, but that leaves them with five hours until the park closes, and they decided long ago that they weren't even going to try to get back to Chiquita before midnight, let alone before curfew.

Jo gets through the barrier first and lets out a high scream of excitement, bouncing on the spot as she waits for the rest of them to get their tickets – "hurry up, for God's sake, hurry _up_!" – and then wastes no time before she grabs Dean's hand and hauls him bodily along the path at full speed to the nearest ride, Castiel and Victor in tow.

The sun sears down on them, long shadows on the near-sizzling tarmac, prickling sweat at their hairlines; shrieking yells come from every direction, small children babbling on the smaller rides, roller-coasters and gravity-defiant thrill-towers twisting and stabbing up into the sky with the blur of carriages and seemingly miniscule bodies.

They run first for the Hustler, an arena of spinning snooker balls, into which they climb with manic laughter that earns them more than a few worried looks from the adults and children alike in the other balls, and they're putting award-worthy effort and muscle-work into turning the wheel in the middle of the carriage to get them spinning at sickening speeds even before the whistle blows and the machinery gets grinding to whirl them into nausea. Victor turns almost psychotic – yelling, _"faster, come on, try harder, you lazy motherfuckers_" if they ever fall back for even a moment – and Jo's hair is caught up in the wind, tangling in all their faces as she's whipped from side to side by the shift and throw of the balls across the arena. Castiel lets go for a second, regardless of Victor's screaming reprimands, and wobbles up to kneel on his seat and look out behind him, never flinching as the ball jolts them to the sides as though they're going to break straight through and roll into the distance. A grin breaks out on his face. Dean hits in the stomach and tells him to get back to work.

They move for bigger things, harder rides, although Jo won't go on anything bigger than the Road Runner Express, narrowing her eyes up at the impressive heights reached by the roller-coasters and saying with nonchalant insistence that she doesn't mind holding their backpacks while they go and enjoy themselves. The excuse actually stands for a while, as Dean, Victor and Castiel run recklessly from ride to ride, jumping barriers and ducking gates to get as many adrenaline-rushes into the time they've been allocated. Dean and Victor scream themselves raw on the Scrambler, spinning up into the air so fast they can't see the horizon as it whirls and dips away from them, but Castiel stays tight-lipped.

Jo diligently waves and snaps photos and jeers insults up at them as they sit in the station, strapped in and waiting to go for another round and another, and she makes sure that her camera is ready on record whenever Dean screams 'like a little girl', as she always taunts him whenever they go to a theme park together.

When they've rushed across to the next ride, the Huss Frisbee, and are getting strapped securely to the wall in an upright position, Dean turns his head to once side to look at Castiel. "You can scream too, you know," he tells him.

Castiel looks at him. He's windswept, his hair all pushed back from his face by the G-force from the last few rides, his cheeks flushed pink. He frowns. "I don't need to."

Dean rolls his eyes and nudges him with his shoulder. "It's not about needing to – it's just fun!" he says.

Victor, seeing his chance to warm up with another valedictorian-worthy speech, cuts in. "It's about knowing that you're _alive_," he says passionately and looks up at the sky above them, and the great metal structure that will shortly be hurling them up into the air. "It's about embracing the here and the now and—"

The Frisbee jolts into action, throwing Victor back into the wall and effectively shutting him up, but as the walls start to spin faster and faster, Castiel glances over at Dean with the start of a smile. Dean grins back at him.

Back and forth and again they swing as they spin and spin, the earth and the sky rolling over each other in a blur of colour until Dean can't tell which way is up, and they finally reach the top of the swing, and Dean whoops and Victor shouts, "_Embrace the here and now!"_ – and then, slowly, slowly, with an almost everlasting moment at the peak where they are suspended, weightless, upside-down and waiting for gravity to pull them down one way or another – Castiel screams.

They fall.

The ground rushes up to meet them and then they're caught and thrown again, still spinning fast so that they're thrust back against the circular walls. The sun is hot on their skin until they stick to the plastic rests either side of their heads that keep them in place, and the sound of their voices is ringing out into the sky like an earth-shattering revelation, and they plummet and lift and drop again.

They go for thrill-towers, roller-coasters - wheeling death-traps, as Jo says every time they stagger down from the stations, breathless and wobbly-legged. They sit at the back of the coasters for the fastest ride, throw their arms up high, and scream themselves hoarse. When they at least exhaust the last big ride in this part of the park, Jo, clutching a half-eaten orange-flavoured popsicle, doesn't waste a moment in ripping the shit out of them and playing back the video footage of their high-pitched screams – until Victor calls her bluff on her alleged _selflessness._

"Hey, I'm getting kind of thirsty," he says as they stumble away to the next ride, and he holds out a hand for Jo to toss him his backpack, where he had stashed a metric fuckton of energy drinks. She does, and then, unzipping the main pocket, he adds, "You can pass me the others as well, if you want – I can hold the bags for a while."

Jo's fingers tighten on the straps of the bags she's holding. "Oh no, don't worry about it," she says, casual as anything. "Trust me, I'm having plenty of fun watching you guys all shit yourselves – forwards, backwards, over-the-Irish-Sea-wards, you name it. Upside down…" She pulls a face and waves her popsicle around dismissively. "It's fine, seriously."

"No, really, I hate to think that you're missing out on all the fun." Victor glances around at Dean and Castiel. "I mean, to be honest, we can all probably take our bags on the rides if we keep them secure on our backs."

"Mine has buckles across the chest," Castiel says helpfully, demonstrating as such.

Dean shrugs, stretches his arms up above his head. "I mean, if you're scared," he says, his voice casually strained as he yawns, no big deal, "then it doesn't matter, I guess, but I really hate to think of you just—"

"I'm not scared," Jo retorts. She takes a decisive bite off the top, slushy part of her popsicle.

"It's fine if you are," Victor says and places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It happens to everyone."

She jerks away from his touch, scowling. "I'm not _scared_."

"Okay, then," Dean says. "Let's go on the Krypton Coaster." He beams around at all of them, his gaze resting at last on Jo like a challenge. "All of us."

Jo stares back at him, eyes narrowed and Victor bursts out laughing. "Come on, man, that's just cruel," he says, nudging Dean with his elbow. They've all seen the advertisements plastered up all across the park – Krypton Coaster: the fastest ride in the park; the largest roller-coaster in the South-western states; the tallest vertical loop in the world – and it seems unfair to make _that _be the one Jo tries. Victor reaches out for her. "We're only kidding, you don't have t—"

"Fine."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Fine?"

Jo pushes her hair back over her shoulder and snaps, "I said, _fine_." And without further ado, she unceremoniously dumps the backpacks on the ground, flinging her arms out melodramatically wide as she frees herself of them. "Hold my popsicle," she says imperiously of Castiel, thrusting it at him, and then, not waiting a second longer, she turns on her heel and runs.

Dean, Castiel, and Victor exchange bewildered looks, left frozen in her wake, and then jolt into action as they scoop up the bags and run hollering after her.

She isn't kidding either; she climbs on faster than they can stop her or even suggest that maybe this was a bad idea, and sits there, buckled in, yelling at them to hurry up and get on board – '_unless they're scared or something'_.

Castiel politely asks the station attendant if they can leave their bags just in the corner until they get back, who reluctantly agrees, and from there, it's just the steady heartbeat clung-_chnk _of the chains pulling the carriages up higher and higher until they're off and away. Jo screams all the way around and throws up spectacularly on the corkscrew – upside down and everything. When the train finally pulls into the station at the end, she's shaking so hard she can barely walk and her face is blotchy, tear-stained, but she walks away down the steps unassisted, stands at the bottom, draws herself up tall, and tells them all that they can suck a dick.

"Gladly," Dean says cheerfully. Jo punches him in the arm; Castiel flushes up from his collar.

While Jo stands to one side, hands on hips, and breathes deeply in an attempt to compose herself, Victor retrieves the bags from the corner of the station and throws them down the stairs to where the others are waiting, calling out loud a parody of Oprah's generosity – "_you _get a backpack, _you _get a backpack, _everybody _gets a backpack!" He then discovers stuck to one of the straps of Jo's bag is her popsicle, where Castiel had carefully laid it in an attempt to keep it clean and edible while they were on the ride. He looks like he's going to retch. "Oh god," he says. "Jo, what do you want me to do with this?"

She sucks in one last deep breath, shakes herself as though trying to get back in the game, and glances over. "What? Oh." She screws up her nose disapprovingly at it. "Give it here."

Victor looks between her and the popsicle, horrified, like he thinks she's going to resume eating it like it hasn't been smeared all over her backpack and all over the floor and possibly all over some deeply-engrained faecal matter left from ages gone by, but dutifully hands it over.

Jo takes it from him, looks at it for a second, and then hurls it over-arm long into the distance, and it is gone. Then, with a satisfied _hmph,_ she sets off striding into the distance for the next big thing.

Finally kicking into action, Victor is scandalised. "_Jo_!" he exclaims.

"What?" She doesn't so much as turn back. She slings one backpack strap over one shoulder and continues down a narrow path into the next section of the theme park, where still more rides await them.

Dean and Castiel follow, watching the exchange with some amusement, as they both know that Jo gives precisely zero shits about what she just did, and none of Victor's rants on the environment and social etiquette are going to change that.

Victor hurries after her. "You can't just _do _that!" he says in a frantic undertone. "Someone might—"

"Someone might what?" Jo stops walking for a second and lifts her eyebrows at him, apparently enough recovered from the Krypton Coaster to return to her usual mode of sassy bitch on patrol. "What is anyone gonna do to me? Hell, what is anyone gonna do to any of us?"

Dean and Castiel catch up; Dean slings an arm around Victor's shoulder, who is still gaping at Jo, trying to find some witty retort, but failing. "They could – I don't know, they could—"

"What? Tell the camp staff? Call our moms? Send us home?" She laughs, a short sound that's halfway between harsh and elated. "Victor, no-one knows we're here! We're hundreds of miles away from anyone who could ever give a shit – no-one here knows who we are, or what we are, or what we do."

Victor doesn't have an answer for that.

"We're nobodies," Dean says as the realisation hits him.

Here, they're completely anonymous. They could give fake identities and no-one would be any the wiser. Jo could claim to be a minor celebrity; Dean could pretend to be from New York; Castiel could say he was an atheist – and no-one would know the difference, and no-one would be eavesdropping to call them into their office for inappropriate conduct or even just breathing the idea that maybe everything that Zachariah and Alistair say isn't golden.

Dean drops his arm from around Victor's shoulders and lets out a laugh of surprise. "We can do whatever the hell we want here and no-one can stop us."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Jo says, rolling her eyes.

She looks as though she's about to reel off all the highly illegal things they could get thrown out of the park or arrested for, such as theft and murder and assault, but she's interrupted, because suddenly Castiel speaks up from behind them. "They can't do anything."

Jo turns to grin at him. "Absolutely powerless."

Castiel is breathing fast, his eyes flashing around to all of them like his thoughts can't settle in one place long enough for him to articulate them. "They—" he starts breathlessly. "They have no idea – I can do whatever I want."

"Sure, sweetie, except little things like petty crime, but—"

And then he's tipping his head to yell into the blue sky or oblivion, "Zachariah is an asshole!"

Jo calls out an _amen, _and Victor bursts out laughing. "Whoa there, Che Guevara, don't hurt yourself."

Castiel isn't done though. He sucks in a deep, almost painful-looking breath as though steeling himself against the inevitable punishment for what he'd said, and stumbles back a few steps down the path. "Zachariah's an asshole," he shouts again, his hands flying out at his sides in small fists like he's trying to ground himself or just about to take flight. "And my brothers – I don't care what they think!"

"Easy, Cas," Jo says, but her voice is soft, like she's watching something volatile. "People are looki—" But she cuts herself off, because this is supposed to be a place of complete individual freedom, and who gives a shit if some middle-aged woman with her bratty toddlers doesn't like the way Castiel thinks of himself when he's finally allowed to do it in his own terms?

"I'm doubting my religion," Castiel is yelling, dragging in great, shuddery breaths to force out each admission, his chest heaving so violently he could break apart. "I don't know if God really exists – or he doesn't give a – a _crap_ about me!"

There is still a thin crowd filtering past them, and some passing families with small children shoot Castiel dirty looks, and some point, and some stop and stare at the skinny teenage boy losing his mind in the middle of the path to the Twister.

They've fallen into silence now, watching Castiel scream himself hoarse. Dean wants to say something, but his throat is oddly choked, and all he can do is reach out a hand for him, but Castiel steps back out of reach.

"I hate my family," Castiel yells, his face all screwed up. "_I hate my family_!"

"Cas," Dean says, voice thick.

Castiel lowers his chin and looks at Dean like he's seeing him for the first time. He's shaking.

Dean crosses to him in three steps, takes his face in his hands, and kisses him – yeah, in daylight, in public, in Texas, and he doesn't give a shit.

For once, Jo and Victor don't catcall or make vomiting noises in the background; they politely avert their gazes and instead direct their attention to glaring at passers-by as though daring them to say or do something to shatter this moment. No-one does, and the moment holds and holds like a perfectly suspended soap bubble, glittering in the sunlight, and when Dean pulls away Castiel is still breathless, but he's soft, warm, and his hands curl unconsciously into the material of Dean's T-shirt.

"Come on," Dean says. He jerks his head in the direction of the waiting rides, further down the path. "Or are we just going to stand here?" Then he lets his fingers drop down to Castiel's where they clutch at his clothing, and he takes his hand.

Castiel's expression softens; his fingers tighten reflexively through Dean's, like he's scared Dean might let go. Dean doesn't – not when he tugs him along down the path in the next themed section of the park, not when Jo and Victor fall back into their complaints of PDA, not when the lady checking their tickets at the Twister gives their entwined fingers a scandalised frown. There's one moment where Dean pulls his hand away, and Castiel looks across at him with an expression that's carefully devoid of feeling, but then Dean just wipes his palm over the thigh of his shorts with a sheepish look after seeing the smear of sweat it leaves on the denim, and then grabs Castiel's hand again, to haul him up the stairs to where the Twister is waiting like a toothy mouth.

It's nearing six o'clock. The sun is stretching thin, the sky becoming that pale, almost-misty shade of blue when the air is cooling and the day is settling to close; sweat is crystallised on their skin, on the bridge of Jo's bug-eyed sunglasses, on the head-band of Castiel's cap where it nestled snug against his forehead.

They buy ice-cream and churros, getting sugar smeared all around their lips – Victor pushes Dean's head forwards into his strawberry cone so that he gets a faceful of ice-cream, and Jo nearly pees herself laughing, while Castiel concernedly goes about using napkins to try and get it off. They're whirled up high on ridiculous rides, Jo back to her usual position remaining on solid ground to make fun of them, cackling with delight when they stagger green-faced and dizzy down from the stations afterwards.

They make a beeline for dumb kiddie rides – as they tease Jo that it's the only thing she's brave enough to go on, but the teasing is without real intent, as they have no desire to put her through something like the Krypton Coaster again – but they happily make idiots of themselves, wedging themselves in amongst fat, over-excited children and their disapproving parents. They stuff themselves two to a seat in the little mechanical cars that chug slowly along their designated path, hollering out of the windows about traffic rules and road safety and not being able to find anywhere to park in this goddamn metropolitan nightmare, until the attendant strides over to them, his steps easily outrunning the lethargic buzz of the cars along the track, and tiredly asks them to leave. They climb aboard the little railway train as it crawls through the park and stick their heads out of the windows like overheated dogs, whooping and screaming like it's the high-speed thrill of their lives; they cram their asses into the tiny seats for the baby rides that lift them barely far enough off the ground for their feet to take off and rejoice loudly at being able to touch the sky. They start impromptu food-fights in the snack court when they stop to get hot-dogs, and squirt condiments in glorious, high-arcing rainbows, mustard and ketchup and barbeque sauce. They fit their faces to the painted wooden stands of cartoon characters with the faces cut out – Jo a brawling caveman, Castiel a rather nonplussed clown, Victor a femme fatale, Dean the friendly dog – and pull stupid faces. They walk in a long line, silhouettes to the sun.

Jo decides she can stomach the log flume, and they all race up the winding path to the boats. They sit side-by-side – Dean by Castiel in front, Jo by Victor in the back – and with building anticipatory yells let their weight be dragged up and up and up. The sun is dropping low as they climb, until they almost feel on equal levels, but as they navigate the long chutes upwards and across to the final descent it's still hot enough that any water splashing over the sides feels good on their skin, and Dean even defies theme park etiquette and sticks his hand out of the ride to trail through the water.

They reach the top. There is the grinding moment when the cogs drop away from beneath the boat, and then they crest over, and then they are suspended in time for a split-second before they drop, and Jo screams the loudest, girliest scream ever heard.

As they sweep down, lightning-fast and weightless, Dean is taken over by the strangest idea, and without really giving much thought to the physics of it, he goes for it – he sees the warning flash of light as they near the bottom, where the camera is watching to capture their inevitably hilarious faces of terror and exhilaration, and he reaches over, and he kisses Castiel.

To say that it doesn't go quite as planned would be an understatement.

Castiel is taken aback by the spontaneous romantic assault, and jerks backwards away from him; as a result, Dean is left wildly off-balance and without support; the boat slams into the waiting wall of the water, hard; Dean pitches forwards and smacks face-first into the safety bar with an agonising crunch; the camera flashes.

It takes a couple of seconds for reality to catch up to them, once the water has rushed over and drenched them all thoroughly, but then Jo and Victor find themselves screaming with laughter as Castiel, mortified beyond words, dabs at Dean and offers ineffectual first-aid advice as he tries to find a way to stem the blood now flowing copiously from his nose.

"Is everything alright?" the attendant asks worriedly as they climb out of the boat – Dean clutching his face, Castiel bright red with embarrassment, Jo and Victor clinging to each other for support as they laugh so hard they can barely stand – but Dean waves him off with a blood-stained grin.

"I'm really sorry," Castiel cringes over and over, trailing after Dean with hands that drift and hover like he's not sure what to do to fix the problem, but is keenly aware that something needs to be done. "I didn't understand – I just – I'm so sorry—"

Dean sits heavily on a nearby fence post, tipping his head as far back as he can, nose pinched. "S'cool," he says, his voice nasal. "Was just dumb, anyway."

"It wasn't dumb," Castiel says. "It was a nice idea."

"No, it was pretty dumb," Jo cuts in, and, holding up her camera, is merciless in documenting Dean's injury.

Dean scowls.

He takes a couple minutes to let the blood flow stop before he drops his chin and removes the stained bundle of tissues from his nose. The bleeding has stopped, but it has left him crusted in dark red like a particularly untidy cannibal, staining his lips and teeth, and Castiel spends another few minutes using tissues and his bottled water to try and clean Dean's face so that he looks a little less like an escaped psychopath.

Once adequately tidied up, and once Jo has run out of tasteless jokes about Dean getting jiggy during shark week, Dean stands up. He's still a little dizzy, but he can walk in a straight line, so Victor deems him alright to continue with the rest of the day.

"Now are we gonna check out the probably-hilarious photographic results of Dean Winchester's one, epic attempt at being romantic, or what?" Victor prompts, jerking his head in the direct of the booth selling the photos from the bottom of the log flume.

"Damn straight we are!" A truly evil grin spreads across Jo's mouth in a way that Dean hasn't seen since they were thirteen, when she slept over at his house and heard him mumbling in his sleep about how great Cassie Robinson smells. "There's no way I'm not keeping that one for the scrapbook – or, you know, eternal blackmail material, whichever works…"

"Aww, come on, Jo," Dean whines, already feeling a deep flush of embarrassment creeping up into his neck and ears at the thought of having the memory paraded around at every opportunity for the next ten years, but Jo is already up and running.

Victor cackles with laughter, and Dean, letting out a heavy sigh, hurries to shoulder his backpack and jog after them. However, no sooner that they've set out across the hot tarmac for the pirate-themed booth where Jo is already leaning greedily across the counter to point on their photo, his phone starts going off in his pocket. He slows to a walk as he fishes it out of his pocket, before stopping altogether.

"Dean?" Up ahead, Castiel notices that Dean has fallen behind. He stops and stretches an arm out towards Dean in encouragement for him to catch up, take his hand, be with him.

"Hang on—" Dean squints through the harsh sunlight to see the caller ID.

Lisa Braeden.

Dean lets it ring a little longer in his hand as he stares incredulously at the little screen – what on earth could she want? And why now? – and then, slowly, as though his thumb is possessed by some force beyond his control, he presses a small red button and declines the call.

Castiel is waiting for him. Dean looks up at him – he's pink flushed from the heat and sweaty, hair unkempt under the lopsided tilt of his baseball cap, hand outstretched expectantly for Dean to hold – and in that second, Dean thinks he has never wanted anything more in his whole life than to just lace their fingers so tight together that they feel seamless.

Dean switches his phone off. Then he hurries after the others, grabbing Castiel's hand as he reaches him, and drags him excitedly along to the photo booth.

The photo, when they fork out the money for it – Jo insists, as she says that there's no way they can leave behind such a priceless memory – is absolutely ridiculous. Dean is captured mid-recoil from the metal bar, his face screwed up and bright red; Castiel is gaping at him in open horror; Victor is screaming and flinching back from the wave of water hitting them, completely oblivious to the carnage directly in front of him; Jo is frozen in that wide-eyed look of being just about to bursts into manic shrieks of laughter. Dean has to admit, it's a pretty funny picture. Castiel tucks it carefully into the pages of his copy of _War and Peace _to keep it neat and flat.

The sun is starting to thicken and fall, spreading dusky pinks and oranges in loose ripples up from the horizon like a crinkled blanket. A low wind picks up with the evening chill, stirs their hair and clothes, chills the sweat on their skin; they can take off their caps and sunglasses now, and lift their faces to the sky, where the bright twinkle of decorative theme-park fluorescence cuts up the cooling gold of the sun.

They ride the Bumper Karts in wide, aggressive circles – Victor yelling about how on earth he's supposed to practice parallel parking if there's no reverse gears in the karts – and throw themselves high into the sky on the SkyScreamer, legs out in front of them as they drop to earth from thirty feet fast enough for gravity to untie and tangle their shoe-laces. They run for the Whirligig, legs shaky to sit down or at least take a break from the endless rush of adrenaline, and on the way past the food court, Jo's knees give out and she falls. Without so much as blinking, Dean and Victor hoist her up high on their shoulders like a reigning sovereign, dramatically reciting the battle speech from Braveheart, declaring that Jo is a courageous veteran of the Krypton Coaster who should be treated with the utmost respect. Castiel seems baffled by the whole thing, but happily walks in front of them throwing ceremonial leaves as per Jo's insistence.

The park is near to closing, lights shutting down on the grander rides, more of a hush across the grounds now with the families and school trips all long-dissipated back home. Dean, Jo, Victor and Castiel – they could go on and on forever.

They ditch their bags at the gates to the Whirligig, flash their tickets – persuading Jo with blood threats and promises of a soft pretzel if she joins them - and run through to pick the best seats. They chain themselves tightly into their swing-seats and wait for the thick, circus-painted pillar in the middle to get into action, to rotate and spin them out fast.

Castiel sits in front of Dean, and as they wait, he keeps twisting back in his seat to see him, sometimes asking how his nose his feels, sometimes to voice a concern (in an undertone, so that Jo doesn't hear) that these mere chains and chairs can't possibly hold their weight, and once or twice, just to peek quickly at Dean with the shy look of someone who thought maybe they wouldn't be noticed.

Then the gears clunk and the chairs lift and their feet are dragged from the metal floor, as the roof stretches and unfolds and begins to rotate. They move, slowly at first, the roof dragging them in ever-growing circles as new layers unlock and grow taller, dragging them higher and higher until the last few people below are dots, and if they fell now, they'd break both their legs, and they could reach sideways and graze the treetops with their fingertips.

They're spinning faster now, gravity pulling the swings out to the side so that they're a long diagonal to the ground below. Jo starts to sing, loudly and tunelessly to herself, to keep from being scared; Victor joins in with terrible harmonising and Dean dedicates a moment or two to the world's worst attempt at beat-boxing, but it makes her laugh and that's okay. They're higher than the sun now, watching it drip like slow toffee, gold and orange, below the jagged cityscape line of San Antonio in the distance, and then it's twilight, all purples and dark, smooth indigos. Castiel holds his arms out wide and it takes Dean's breath away looking at him; he's flying.

Against all their wishes, the ride at last slows and falls, and they are lowered back to earth. Windswept, cold from the night-air rushing through their clothes and skin, Dean and Victor grin wordlessly at each other from their swings in a kind of peaceful solidarity that doesn't feel like it needs to be explained, and for several lingering moments, Castiel keeps his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet off the floor like he never wants to touch down.


	19. The One Where They Play Softball

**A/N: **Actually, I'm sorry, it's staying as Kind Of A Forever Deal after all. Sorry – ignore me being super indecisive!

**KIND OF A FOREVER DEAL**

**Chapter Nineteen**

**Week 9, Day +14**

Sunday brings in the next batch of kids - pasty as they always are before their exposure to excessive sunlight and exercise, and sweaty from the ride over in those cramped shuttle-buses without air-conditioning. Dean is paired with Meg again, who flicks her eyes sharply over him before apparently deciding it not worth her trouble to say anything bitchy, and she slumps down in the shade of an aspen tree to leaf through a glossy magazine until they're assigned their group.

Zachariah is still away, and so the distribution of children to their volunteer carers is overseen by Missouri and Alistair by megaphone and, in Alistair's case, by generally glowering at everyone until pure fear motivates them to get the job done.

Seeing as Meg clearly isn't going to leave her magazine until the last possible second, Dean wanders over the shuttle-buses to help pull suitcases out of the back, and actively searches for his new ten-year-olds instead of simply waiting for them to find their way to him. For the most part, with the exception of one boy who has an unhealthy interest in the group's scheduled activities in reference to the timing of the next full moon, the newbies seem a nice enough bunch.

Meg, when she joins them, looks over their new groups and snaps her bubble-gum critically between her teeth before she grunts, "Alright, this way," and then she leads them off to their cabins. She doesn't stick around to help them unpack and get settled in – that job is left to Dean, as well as the task of awkwardly patting one girl on the shoulder when she bursts into tears in a sudden wave of homesickness.

Once all sorted into their respective accommodation, the first order of the day is a little group session where they all sit in a neat circle on the grass outside the lobby, exchanging names and hobbies and their goals for the camp, which is mind-numbingly tedious as always – nine weeks into this routine, and Dean's pretty sure he can only hear the awkward, half-giggly, "_Oh, I don't know… uhhh… get fit? And… make new friends, I guess" _that eighty-percent of the kids seem to favour so many times before he gets nauseous.

Mercifully, the dullness of this activity is then followed by paintball, because apparently there's no better way to break the ice than to turn on each other like savages and attempt to grievously injure each other, leaving bruises that will last all week. For the first time all day, Meg shows a genuine interest; she suits up faster than anyone else and readies her weapon with deadly efficiency, fingers quick and deft on the loading mechanism like she might actually be trained on something a little more deadly.

Dean and Meg are on separate teams, to even out their experience amongst the kids, most of whom have never played paintball before, so of course it's nothing out of the ordinary that Meg goes after him, but it seems a little out of proportion to the energy she devotes to shooting the kids. She's either got a lot of dumb luck or killer aim for a perfect headshot, and later, when Dean is limping around collecting the empty weapons and wiping the yellow gunk out of his eyes where it seeped through the gaps in his helmet visor, she looks far too pleased with herself.

They don't stay sticky with brightly dripping paint for too long though, as after lunch they have Water Sports to wash off the sweat, colour, and red dust. They tip their baseball caps back on their heads for a clear view of sand and sea; they kick off their shoes, ball up their socks.

As Dean and his group strip down to their bathing suits and fit themselves with life-jackets, he looks across the beach, and there, on the volleyball pitch, is the familiar figure of Castiel: hair flyaway, shirt crumpled, face severe as he referees the match. Dean lingers a second longer at the edge of the Water Sports hut – determinedly ignoring Victor's tuneless crooning, _turn arouuund, bright eeeyes_, from his duty behind the hut's counter – and waits, hand half-lifted, for Castiel to notice him.

On the volleyball pitch, someone smacks the ball wide and it flies over the boundaries. Castiel goes jogging to fetch it back, and as he stoops to grab it, his eyes flicker across and he catches Dean's eye. He straightens up and just looks across, squinting in the bright light, awkward and a little pigeon-toed with the uneasy shift of sand under his bare feet, but he smiles.

**Week 10, Day +13**

Dean prides himself on many things – his knowledge of the lyrics of every Led Zeppelin song ever released, including B-sides, for one; his ability to curl his tongue into the shape of a four-leaf clover, for another – but he will say now with definitive satisfaction that he can clean a toilet like nobody's business.

Scrubbing the bathrooms in the lobby is Dean's last duty of the day, and they're coming up beautiful, if he says so himself. It's not glamorous, but it's easy and doesn't require too much concentration; he can break out the sponge and suds, and otherwise be left to his own thoughts – like the two weeks remaining before the end of camp, and the prospect of school waiting for him back home, and the two missed calls from Lisa Braeden still sitting untouched on his cell phone.

He hasn't called her back. He isn't sure what she wants, and to be perfectly honest, there's a part of him that doesn't want to know. He won't let himself think about what it means if she's calling him, repeatedly at that, and tries not to think about how that makes him feel, either. He focuses instead on cleaning this last toilet, because he can do that, and he doesn't need anything from anyone else to do it, either.

Once finished, he packs up the cleaning equipment and lugs it across the lobby to the store cupboard behind reception, and then locks up, keys making a satisfying and professional-sounding jingle as he does so. He tucks the keys back into the pot next to Pamela Barnes' computer and stretches his arms behind his back to let his bones pop – that's a day's work done.

Outside, the air is hot and thick, sunlight near syrupy even in the late afternoon; he can instantly feel sweat prickle on the nape of his neck. Dean heads down to the snack hut where he usually meets the others to grab a taco or a cold drink, and there he finds Victor and Castiel already waiting on a nearby bench – Victor stretched out sipping a fluorescent-blue slushie while Castiel carefully reapplies his sunscreen.

"Hey," he greets, and stands in front of them, hands buried deep in his shorts' pockets. "Where's Jo?"

Castiel shrugs. "She'll turn up."

"Well, yeah," Dean laughs, "I wasn't expecting she'd been kidnapped."

Castiel squints up at him but makes no response, caught up instead in having accidentally squirted too much sunscreen all over his knee. Victor sucks on the straw for his slushie and it gurgles loudly at the bottom of the cup. Dean looks out across the beach behind them and spots a cluster of volunteers milling about near the volleyball court, lugging small duffel bags and yelling indistinctly. On the far side of the group, there is a small figure with a high ponytail; Dean shields a hand over his eyes and peers across the distance as the figure jumps about shouting at the people around them.

"I think that's her over there," Dean says to Victor and Castiel, and then, to test his theory, lifts his free hand in a half-wave.

At first, he isn't noticed, but then, sure enough, Jo comes running across the sand towards them, skin ocean-damp and hair salt-frizzy in her ponytail. "Guys, come on," she says with a grin and gestures for them to follow her back, "everyone's playing softball!"

Victor, Dean, and Castiel exchange glances, and then seem to unanimously figure _what the hell_, and so they get ready – ditching their slushie cups and sunscreen bottles, respectively, before joining the other volunteers.

As they jog over, they are met with waves, cheers, and overly-competitive demands as to their skill levels, at which Dean proudly boasts of middle school Little League training before Victor shuts him down by reminding him that he then quit because it clashed with when Buffy the Vampire Slayer was on TV.

They divide first into teams of girls versus boys, only to decide that doing it that way wouldn't make for equal teams (_number-wise, _they assure Jo when she gets angry and insists that girls can play just as well as boys), and then shift to the traditional shirts-versus-skins. Bela is all too happy to declare herself captain of the skins team, yanking her shirt smoothly over her head almost before the deciding words have been spoken. From there, she selects the members of her team, alternating with Ash, the similarly self-declared captain of the shirts team. Unsurprisingly, Bela's first choices are Gordon, Meg, and Anna; more surprisingly, her third is Castiel. Dean, Jo, Victor, and Gabriel are consigned to Ash's team, and are eager in starting up their war-cries.

"I hope you don't expect us to play nice just because you've got Cas," Victor yells over and swings the bat back and forth in anticipation.

"I hope you don't play nice," Castiel calls back, that arrogant twist of smirk lifting on his lips, "because then you'd just make destroying you quite boring."

His comment is met from both sides with chorusing cheers of _ohhh _and general exclamations of how badly each is going to get their ass handed to them, and they get to setting up – setting out bases, Bela bossily shouting at her catchers to get to the right places.

"Who wants to pitch?" Castiel asks, glancing around his side and bouncing the baseball lightly in his palm.

Gordon swings right up close to him and catches the ball mid-throw, out of the air in front of his face. "I'll take it," he says, his voice low and darkly humorous. "Although I'd say you're probably pretty used to catching in your free-time anyway."

Castiel doesn't understand, even when Meg titters with laughter beside him, but Dean feels irritation sparking somewhere in his chest overhearing it.

"Right, let's do this!" Gabriel shouts, grinning wickedly and pounding his fists on his chest like a five-foot King Kong.

Victor adjusts his grip on the bat; Bela twists some hair out from where it's become trapped under the strap of her bikini top; Gordon lines up to the right place to pitch; Castiel pinches the hem of his polo shirt between finger and thumb, and lifts it off.

Gordon throws fast, but Victor swings back hard, the bat a glittering blur in the sunlight. The game falls to screeching chaos as the catchers scramble for the ball, Victor trying not to trip in the deep, hot sand as he sprints, those not immediately involved screaming encouragement at the top of their lungs; as a result of this, Jo, the next waiting batsman, is the first to notice.

Without warning, she sucks in a shallow gasp, eyes widening. She does not even turn her head in order to confront Dean. She just says, her voice tight, "Do you have a death wish or something?"

Dean looks over at her, frowning with confusion. "What?" Then he follows her gaze, lands on Castiel—

Fuck.

Castiel's arms, neck and face are tanned, and in some places quite badly sunburnt, and so the comparative paleness of his chest where the sun doesn't reach makes for blatant contrast – and, therefore, the dark swelling bruise-blotches on his collarbone and low in the divot of his throat stand out stark as a spotlight.

"Shit," Dean says, because there is very little else he can say. There is no way it will go unnoticed, and to try to get Castiel to put his shirt back on would only attract more attention to it. He exhales a long, resigned sigh. "_Shit_."

"What on _earth_," Jo starts, muttering furiously under her breath to keep out of earshot of the other members of their team, "possessed you to give him hickeys? What the hell_ – _I mean, Jesus – I don't even know where to start. Are you fucking _suicidal_?"

"No, I'm fucking Cas."

Jo's eyes narrow. "Very funny!" she hisses, jabbing the end of her bat into his chest hard. "I'm sure that joke will be freaking hilarious when Cas is being _exorcised_ by his family! I mean, what even came over you? How could you—"

"I wasn't thinking my upstairs brain, okay?" Dean whispers back angrily. "God – I know I'm a moron, alright? It's too late for all that shit now! We're just going to have to... I don't know – _deal with it_, maybe."

"Good luck with that," Jo retorts, and she opens her mouth to say more, but then it's her turn to be called up to the plate – or, at least, the little diamond they've carved into the sand with 1a stick to signify the plate – so she just glares at Dean and snaps, "We are not done, Mister," before she goes.

Dean is left standing a little dumbstruck, wondering if now would be a good time to start believing in God and praying to him desperately that they somehow get out of this okay.

He glances around but, as Jo wiggles around on the plate and tries to dig her feet into the sand so that she's steady to swing, all eyes are on her, and then Gordon pitches and Jo smacks it with an echoing crack and everyone dissolves into screams, either of "_someone grab the fucking ball" _or "_run, Forrest, run"_. Jo gets all the way around, even so brazen as to slow to a lazy jog as she nears the home plate. Now back where she started, she is congratulated, and the other team turn to each other to gripe and try to come up with a better battle plan.

Jo was the first to spot it. Now, Bela is the second.

Dean looks over at the ear-piercing sound of a high wolf whistle, and he feels a great sinking all through his body like he could drop straight through the ground and never re-surface.

"Well, well, well – I spy with my little eye, something beginning with giant, tacky hickeys," Bela calls out, both hands cupped around her mouth so that everyone hears, and then tilts back with shrill laughter as the others all turn to see.

For one agonising moment, Castiel doesn't seem to understand what's going on, and looks around, nonplussed, but then realisation creeps slowly over his face. As the cat-calls and wolf-whistles build around him, he flushes up from the collar, looking absolutely mortified, but makes no move to defend himself; he rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the ground.

"Ooh la-la," Anna giggles, hand over her mouth. "_Someone's _possessive."

"Hey!" The sound of Victor's voice cuts through, loud and just sharp enough to get everyone's attention and show that he means business. When everyone looks over, they see him standing on the plate, swinging his bat in one hand. "Are we playing this game or what?"

Bela rolls her eyes with an irritated sound at the back of her throat, but bounces the softball once in the palm of her hand and then obligingly slings it over to Gordon to pitch.

They all fall back into their original positions with only minor pointing and laughter, thankfully. Heat still burning across his jaw and ears, Dean glances over at Castiel, but he's busy wriggling back into his shirt and isn't looking.

Dean adjusts his bat in his palm and goes up to the plate.

Wearing an obnoxious smirk that Dean determinedly ignores, Gordon takes a step back, winds up, and throws. Dean swings hard; misses.

The others break into laughter again – somewhere, there's some murmuring of, _come on, Winchester, just pretend it's Novak's throat - _ and Dean scuffs the tip of one sneaker angrily through the sand as he fights down the redness that he can feel climbing to his face. He steps aside to let Victor toss it back to the catching team, and then settles in to try again.

This time he hits it – just clipping the edge so that it spins off weirdly to the left – and he runs.

He has to shove past Castiel, who is hopping agitatedly around one of the bases so as to be in the right position for the ball to be thrown to him, but then Bela hurls it fast. Castiel catches it and then it's a sprint between them for the base. Dean stumbles in first; Castiel slows to a jog behind him, and Dean can hear the frustrated huff of his breath.

"Hey, pass the ball," Gordon calls from the other side of the make-shift diamond now cut into the sand by the number of footprints following the same path.

Dean turns around to throw Castiel a grin. "Well, better luck next time!"

Castiel scowls. "I _let_ you beat me."

"Bullshit did you let me do anything," Dean says with a laugh, and he shoves at Castiel's shoulder. "I beat you fair and square, dude, and you'll just have to stick that in your juice box and suck i—"

"Hey!" Gordon says again, louder this time. "What, are you deaf as well as a goddamn faggot? Pass the fucking ball."

Dean's hand drops from Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel passes the ball.

"I'm sorry, the _fuck _you just call him?" Jo breaks out of the line behind the home plate and comes striding out towards Gordon, still swinging her softball in one hand, and if the murderous expression settling over her face is anything to go by, she isn't just carrying it for intimidation.

Bela's laugh is short and poisonous. "Well, I'm sorry," she says, tone deadly sweet, "but we were under the impression he likes to take it up the arse."

Victor lunges out and snags Jo's elbow to hold her still, just as she takes another step forwards. "I don't care if he likes taking it up the goddamn urethra like a urine test, it's none of your goddamn business," she snaps.

"Jo," Victor says warningly and tugs on her arm. "Come on."

Standing next to Castiel and listening to the even, tired cadence of his breathing, Dean is fully aware that the last thing they need right now is any attention being drawn to this little confrontation. A little name-calling, they can deal with, but a full-blown inquisition as to why a fight broke out would result in the staff finding out, and that's a risk they can't take. However, it doesn't make this feel any less like just bending over and letting Gordon and Bela tear the shit out of them.

Jo twists around to glare at Victor, fingers still tight enough on her bat that her knuckles stand out brightly.

"Seriously." Victor's eyes widen, beseeching. "Just leave it."

She lets out a long breath like she has to deflate herself to keep from swelling up into a hot air balloon of rage and protective mama-bear indignation, and her hand loosens on the bat. She doesn't go without one parting warning, though – she points her bat at Gordon and growls, "Check yourself, buddy," and then stomps back to her place in queue, sour at having been deprived a perfect chance to beat the ever-loving shit out of an asshole.

Gordon doesn't back off, though. "Or what?" he demands to Jo's retreating back, and barks a laugh at the visible tensing of her shoulders, the evident effort on her part not to head back and attack him. He chuckles then, and gets ready to pitch for Gabriel.

Then, with a high whoop, Gabriel has hit the ball and is sprinting towards the bases. Dean turns quickly to Castiel to grab and squeeze his hand before he has to hurry off ahead. Castiel's hand is limp and sweaty in Dean's; his heartbeat is fast in the crease of his wrist.

Once Gabriel has bat and run, and Dean is making his way back to join the back of the queue, Gordon glances at Castiel, and as he prepares to pitch again, he remarks conversationally, "You marked him up real good, Winchester. You do that all your conquests or only the ones you want to pretend didn't happen?"

Dean doesn't answer.

Meg catches his eye. "Although who can blame him, really," she drawls, resting a hand on one hip, and she arches her eyebrows with the smug twist of a smile. "Clarence doesn't look like he's packing as much as he's, _ahem_, lacking, am I right?"

Bela near-enough screams with laughter, and even kind-hearted, give-everyone-a-chance Anna has to bite her lip to keep from giggling again. Anger is beating fiercely under Dean's skin but he chews the inside of his own cheek to keep from answering, and curls his hands into tight fists. Instead, he fires bitchy thoughts at Meg, like how she was just jealous that she'd basically shoved her tits into Castiel's face and he'd still turned her down - just in case telepathy works.

It's Victor's turn. He steps up, balancing the bat carefully in one hand before he settles into position.

"Oh, I've got one!" Bela says, and a delighted smile spreads across her face. She tosses her hair back and throws Castiel a look like she's daring him to defend himself, before she lifts both her hands, palms outwards, like she's about to tell the funniest joke ever heard or perform a magic trick. "I didn't know they taught faggotry at Sunday school!"

Dean rolls his eyes. It's not even funny, let alone witty, but that doesn't make it any less infuriating. He glances across at Jo and can see that her lips are pressed together so tight that the colour has been bleached out of them. He looks at Castiel, then, and that's when fury rises white-hot inside him, because Castiel is just… taking it. He doesn't even look upset. There's a heavy slump to his shoulders like a cut-string puppet, but it's more like resignation – like this is what he expected, and he'll suffer through this because it's no less than he deserves.

"Guess that makes Clarence here top of the class, then," Meg says.

Dean's fingernails dig deep into his own palms, hard enough that he can start to feel the sting of skin breaking. He forces himself to breathe, in and out.

Gordon laughs. "Well, they always say it's the quiet ones who turn out to be sluts."

In all honesty, Dean doesn't even know how it happens. One second he's perfectly zen, breathing nice and slow to keep himself calm, and the next Dean's knuckles are splitting across the bridge of Gordon's nose, hot spill of blood all across his hand, Castiel's yell of _"Dean_!" ringing in his ears.

"Say that again," Dean finds himself snapping, fingers bunched into the front of Gordon's shirt and hauling him up and close. "Say that one more fucking time—"

Gordon reels, grinning all bloody teeth. "Your boy's a fucking slut, Winchester - what are you gonna do about i—"

With a rough sound that rips unbidden out of the back of his throat, Dean shoves him as hard as he can, sends him sprawling backwards to the ground, and follows him down. Hands snatch helplessly at Dean's back, his shoulders, his elbow every time he draws it back to hit Gordon again. His fists are a sharp crack on Gordon's teeth, his jawline – then another noise, more like a crunch, and pain shoots up through Dean's hand all the way to his wrist, fierce enough that his vision temporarily whites out, and in that lull, Gordon kicks out at him, and Dean is knocked off-balance. From there, it's all dizzying spin of sand and sky until he's flat on his back, Gordon leaning over him - blinding pain through what seems like every bone in his body, blood hot and salty inside his mouth—

Then, with a short snarl that Dean's brain can't order into coherent words, Castiel appears behind Gordon, grabs one of his arms and a handful of the back of his shirt, hauls him roughly backwards off Dean, and throws him down into the sand.

Everything falls into silence, then. Dean blinks up at Castiel and sees at least three identical copies of his glare swimming before him. Castiel does not offer to help him up.

As Jo and Victor kneel either side of Dean to drag him into a sitting upright position and berate him for being a colossal moron, Castiel turns his back. Dean doesn't know what he does – he's busy concentrating on not throwing up his lunch – but suddenly Castiel's shoulders stiffen visibly, and then, in the space of a few seconds, he's back at Dean's side.

"Dean, get up, _now," _Castiel hisses as he tries to heave him to his feet. His fingers are without compassion; they curl into the material of Dean's blood-stained shirt and drag him like a dead animal as Dean sways and staggers upright.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Dean complains loudly, shaking his head to try and clear the dizziness from behind his eyes. "Hold your horses, guys, I'm just…"

It strikes him that all the volunteers have become very quiet.

Dean looks up to see the silhouette of Alistair Alderman cut, dark and bony, against the sun.

"Pray tell," Alistair says, his voice low and gentle, the executioner's hand on the convict's head, "what exactly is going on here?"

"Nothing," Victor says. "Just a minor disagreement over the rules, you know."

Alistair's gaze moves slowly over them, one by one. "Is that so?"

Jo tilts her chin up. "Yeah, that's so."

At last, Alistair's eyes come to settle on Castiel. "It sounded a little more… personal, to me."

"No, sir," Castiel says. Dean looks at him, half-blind through the dizziness of having the shit beaten out of him, and as he feels the slow, hot trickle of blood down his chin and looks at the stubborn jut of Castiel's jaw, he thinks Castiel is braver than he could ever be.

Alistair laughs, a short wheeze of sound as flat and humourless as a burst tyre. "Funny," he says, his smile an empty twist. "From where I was standing, it sounded like he called you something terribly unsavoury."

Castiel doesn't answer.

Alistair glances across at the cluster of remaining volunteers who stand a few feet away, awkwardly looking everywhere except at the confrontation, and at his sudden attention shift in their direction, they quickly dissipate, and he returns his focus to Castiel. "Did I hear him call you a slut, Castiel?" Alistair prods softly. "Or a faggot?" He tilts his head. "Now – why would he say a thing like that?"

For the first time, Castiel's resolve wavers. His eyes flicker away from Alistair's, downwards –only for a second, but it's enough. "It's just talk."

"Is it?" Alistair reaches forwards. Castiel doesn't flinch as Alistair's fingers find the edge of his collar and tug it carefully to one side; he stares straight ahead, his jaw tight. Alistair tilts his head to catch Castiel's eye, smile broadening. "What are those?"

Castiel swallows; the flutter of the muscles in his throat makes the bruises undulate slowly.

"They're hickeys!" Jo cuts in, and Dean shoots her an alarmed look, wide-eyed, but she ignores him and steamrolls right ahead; she drags in a deep breath and says, "I gave them to him."

Alistair's bone-cold gaze turns on her.

"Cas, we can't hide it anymore," Jo says passionately, and without further ado, snatches up one of Castiel's hands and clutches it in her own. "We're dating and having rampant sex whenever possible, Mr. Alderman, and…" Jo turns the most unsettlingly gentle, loving expression on Castiel, who simply stares back at her as though she were speaking Korean. "And if boning Cas' brains out is wrong, then I don't want to be right."

Victor makes a choking noise, which is suppressed into a convenient coughing fit.

"He's not a child anymore!" Jo goes on, oblivious to Castiel's pleading expression for her to please, for the love of God, stop talking, and holy shit, honest-to-Christ tears are welling up in her eyes as she turns back to Alistair, now in the climax of her performance. "He can do what he wants with his genitals – and if he wants to put his genitals all up in my genitals, then I say so be it!"

"Harvelle, while I admire your loyalty, I should inform you that it's unnecessary." He smiles down at her, and continues, sing-song, "Someone has already reported an incident at the camping site."

All the colour drains from Castiel's face.

Dean steps forwards. "Look, if you're talking about that kid spraining his ankle, that was—"

"Does Zachariah know?" Castiel asks faintly.

Jo snaps around to look at him. "_Cas_."

"Not yet," Alistair says, and he's fixed on Castiel, unblinking, hungry shark in bloody water. "I was just on my way to inform him, actually."

Dean has the distinct feeling that he should do something, say something, but he's frozen where he stands, and his mouth is sandpaper and dust for all he can think to remedy the situation. There is a painful throbbing through all the knuckles of one hand and an incessant drum-beat inside his skull which makes it hard to concentrate.

"Please don't tell him," Castiel says, and there's no urgency or desperation there – just the quiet hopelessness of someone watching their last chance slip away from them. "Please – I don't know if you want anything, but please, I'll—"

Alistair rolls his eyes. "I have to say, I expected more of you. I don't _want _anything – don't be pathetic – and I don't intend to tell him. See, I want you to tell him instead."

Castiel's eyes fall to the floor.

"Now, I think you should come with me," Alistair says.

Castiel looks away from the beach, up the path through the trees towards the lobby, where Zachariah must be waiting in his office, sat neatly at his desk with his paperwork and his neatly-clipped fingernails and cruel mouth. He inhales shakily, his chest inflating. He looks back at Alistair. "No."

Alistair stares. "Excuse me?"

Castiel lifts his chin. "I said, no."

"Now, Castiel, this isn't the time to be exercising your newfound love of disobed—"

"You want me to tell Zachariah something?" Castiel says, his words loud and ugly in the air. He's breathing fast, shaking a little, but he screws his face up and for once in his life, he fights back. "Fine. I'll tell him. I'll tell him the whole thing – I'll tell him I'm gay and I let Dean Winchester fuck me in a tent and it was the best moment of my whole life and I blasphemed while we were doing it—"

"That's enough, Castiel," Alistair says sharply.

"And I like blaspheming! God_damnit_!" Castiel steps up into Alistair's face. "You know what, I think the Virgin Mary was a whore! What are you going to do about it? Jesus probably sucked a dick at some point or other – hell, I bet it took God a whole year to build the earth and heavens because he was a goddamn lazy _asshole_!"

"_Enough!_" Alistair snaps.

Castiel is flushed, his chest heaving, but he draws a deep breath and holds himself up tall. He's five-foot-six, just up to Alistair's chin, but the sun throws his shadow ten-foot-tall over Alistair. He's skinny, he's sunburnt, and at that moment, even if only for a second, he's indestructible. "I'll tell him everything," he says, voice low, "but I will not let you bully me."

Alistair's eyes sweep slowly Castiel like he's weighing him strength for strength. " Well, who'd have thought?" he said gently, like cyanide. "We might make a little martyr of you yet." His eyes then flash over the rest of them – Victor, then Jo, then resting at last on Dean – and his upper lip curls a little, but he seems to have no more to say, and so turns to walk away.

Castiel exhales in a punch. His spine sags as though exhaustion has finally found him, and he doesn't speak.

"Man, that was glorious," Victor exclaims delightedly, throwing an arm loosely around Castiel's shoulders and hugging him lopsidedly with a squeeze.

"I'm sorry, I tried my best," Jo adds with a sympathetic wince. "I don't know how he didn't buy it – that was pure Meryl Streep I was pulling back there."

"Thank you," Castiel says, but the smile he gives is hollow. He twitches nonchalantly away from Victor's arm, like he's grateful but it's no big deal, but the instant Dean's good hand lands on Castiel's shoulder, he turns cold and rigid.

"You okay?" Dean asks, feeling Castiel stiffen. His hand falls away.

"I'm fine." Castiel doesn't meet his eyes. He wanders a short distance across the now-abandoned softball pitch to retrieve his sneakers, socks bundled up inside. "If it's alright, I'm going to go back to my room. I'm running out of time to read _War and Peace _and I still have another volume yet to read."

He looks up at them, as though expecting some kind of challenge to this plan, and, finding none, he then nods at Jo and Victor, thanking them for everything, and heads away up the path.

For a second Dean just glances between Jo and Victor, utterly bewildered, but when they only have shrugs to offer him in the way of an answer, he huffs and runs up the path after Castiel. He doesn't even delay long enough to grab his shoes or his baseball cap from the beach, and so when he moves into the shade provided by the trees clustered along the path on the way back to the accommodation block, he is momentarily blinded.

"Cas!" he calls as he stumbles in the sudden gloom, kneading at his eyes to try and hurry their adjustment time. "Cas, wait up!"

He continues to stagger through the temporary darkness until he crashes the warm solidity of a familiar body, and he bounces backwards. He can pick out Castiel now, stood still on the path with his arms loose at his sides, sneakers dangling by the laces from one hand. There are thin ripples of dim, greenish light across his face where the cover of the thin-limbed aspen breaks above them.

"Cas, what's wrong?" Dean says breathlessly. "Are you okay?" He feels the instinct to step back away from Castiel just in case anyone should see them together in this proximity, but he figures at this point it doesn't matter anymore. Castiel steps back anyway.

"Dean," Castiel starts.

"This is what you wanted, wasn't it?" Dean says. "To stand up to them – to make them actually recognise that you're a person, and not some dumb little puppet?"

"No, Dean, that's what you wanted," Castiel says irritably. "Actually, I was perfectly happy being a puppet."

"You were miserable!"

"Yeah, I was," Castiel bites back. "But you know what? I was also secure in knowing that I would continue to have a place to live and food to eat for the next three years. How do you think that stands now?"

Dean doesn't know what to say. There is blood all across his face and he thinks he might have broken his hand and he doesn't know what is wrong between him and Castiel, and he sure as hell doesn't know how to fix it. He tries, "Cas."

"I didn't need you to do that for me," Castiel says flatly.

"What?" Dean recoils in confusion, trying to work out how all of this could be his fault. "What – you mean with Gordon?"

Castiel turns to look up the path. His jaw is a sharp line, pulled tight.

"But, Cas, you heard what he was saying—"

"Yeah, I did," Castiel snaps, eyes flashing back to meet Dean's. "I was there, Dean. Funnily enough, I was also the one he was actually talking about. You may not believe it, but I can fight my own battles."

Dean opens his mouth to protest, something about how until five minutes ago Castiel wouldn't have known how to stand up for himself if he'd been given a goddamn broadsword, but Castiel cuts over him again.

"Do you know what _lying low _means?"

"Letting people walk all over you, apparently," Dean says sarcastically, but that only serves to make Castiel angrier; he flares up in Dean's face, eyes narrowed.

"Contrary to popular belief, Dean Winchester, _you did not turn me gay_," he says, teeth gritted hard enough that a muscle jumps in his jaw. "I've been living with this for a long time and it has never been a problem before I met you."

"Are you saying this is my fault?" Dean asks incredulously.

Castiel sighs. He presses his lips into a thin line and looks away. "I'm saying you make things complicated."

"Complicated," Dean echoes.

Castiel breathes, in and out, his chest a steady rise and fall beneath the coarse cotton of his uniform polo shirt. With his face turned away, the light catches behind his ear, on the slope of his neck down to where the bruises are brightest. "Dean, I'm sorry, I have to go—"

"Read _War and Peace_," Dean finishes. "Yeah. Okay. I mean, I probably have to go get my wrist set," he says pointedly, lifting his arm – which is now swelling up to roughly double its normal size, "but yeah – whatever. Read your book."

Castiel declines his head, like he meant to nod but only got halfway there, and then, still looking down at the floor, he walks away. Dean watches him go, and for a second, considers rebelliously refusing to go to the medical centre, just to spite Castiel for not giving a shit that Dean's wrist is at least fractured, but then he concedes that he probably just get it checked out, because it hurts like hell, and he's never really been all that brave.


End file.
